


Body and Blood

by AGlassRoseNeverFades



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: (And I cannot stress this enough), (not will or hannibal), ALL of the Warnings Apply Here, Additional tags I forgot earlier:, And of course..., But turned up to 11 thanks to the above warnings and shiny red flags, Cannibalism, Come join me in Hell y'all, Cute But With Ominous Undertones, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, Dubious Drunken Decision-Making, Father/Son Incest, Grooming, Hannibal Lecter's A+ Parenting, Hannibal is a terrible human being, I've been reliably informed this fic deserves one more descriptor:, It's quite cozy and warm here, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Obsession, Ok I think I've tagged this to death enough by now, Plus there's opera and cookies and tea, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Statutory Rape, Sugar Daddy levels of spoiling, Suicidal Ideation, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships, Which Hannibal takes full advantage of because, Will is a troubled touch-starved teen with fear of abandonment issues, Will is only 15 when the relationship turns sexual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 26
Words: 76,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24464446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGlassRoseNeverFades/pseuds/AGlassRoseNeverFades
Summary: There is little of himself to be seen in the boy who clearly takes after his mother. He has her coloring, her soft classical features, even her muted air of melancholy, here more pronounced and freshly shaded by grief. Yet looking closely, is there not something in his bearing that reminds him of Robertus’s solemn, thoughtful gaze? Is that petal-pink, bow-shaped mouth not curiously familiar even without Simonetta’s gracious and warming smile? Even those charming, impossible to hide ears are so like his sister’s that his remaining doubts crumble and lie forgotten, and with them his ability to hold firm to neutral disinterest. It is no longer a question that this fragile young beauty is his son, and Hannibal is impatient now to bring him home as soon as possible, and equally unseemly in his sudden desire to hide Will away and allow no other watchful eyes the privilege of an unhindered view.Will’s parents die, and it turns out the man who raised him was not his biological father. Hannibal sees in this unexpected development an opportunity to nurture and raise his own companion and partner, in all things and in every possible sense of the word.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1373
Kudos: 1883





	1. Prologue: The First Loss

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [All Flesh Consorteth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7397920) by [Gweezle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gweezle/pseuds/Gweezle). 



> Translation into Spanish by AAlessandraFY available on [Wattpad.](https://www.wattpad.com/story/256090939?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=AAlessandraFY&wp_originator=T3wu%2BLWC5kotd2JUd%2BqAbld72GpIIePl0uz9Aq1%2FnRuk1dU%2BGu3G93Z8o5c30xNmeueMQDBnLZGxxcB6kEVX%2B2FBGQ5xJLR%2BuHcjKtru%2Fv00hvfecWnYhYZK0jXkygVf)
> 
> Life in quarantine has spawned _this_ little bundle of joy inspired by one of my favorite hannigram fics of all time. Because why should my brain let me work on my other WIPs when it could share with you all something brand new featuring an even more vulnerable Will Graham and more morally bankrupt Hannibal Lecter than usual? _*headdesks repeatedly*_
> 
> As usual, please heed all warnings and let me know if I've missed anything that ought to be tagged.
> 
> Each chapter gets its own song. This one's is [Drinkin' Thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Idfnm8Flz3E) by Gary Stewart. It'll be pretty apparent why within the first paragraph.

The first time he loses her, he’s too young to understand what it really means. She’s no more than a name Levi sometimes mumbles into his glass when he’s loose and lolling in his chair in the evenings and listening to old cassettes of Gary Stewart or Merle Haggard singing about heartbreak, too far gone to hold it fast and guarded behind clenched teeth, a name he tries to keep to himself most of the time because he worries it hurts his son to hear it almost as much as it hurts for him to say it. Truthfully, Will would count himself neither under nor overburdened by the shallow pool of knowledge he had about his mother’s existence. Her name was Eleanor Graham, née Abellard. She played the piano. She liked to collect seashells and listen to the crack and snap of twigs splintered underfoot, but couldn’t stand to be away from the modern conveniences of city living for too long. She knew better than to breed but had decided to keep the baby anyway, until she changed her mind again later.

  
On nights that he knows Will needs to study for a big test coming up or work on a class project, Will’s dad hangs around the boatyard later than usual after his shift to down a beer or two or five with the other dockworkers instead of drinking at home. He won’t be a distraction, the sad man taking up too much space in the worn out recliner in their living room when Will needs to be focused, won’t risk his son’s future like that.

  
Will is at home pinning insects onto a thrifted scrap of corkboard, repurposed from another project that had been graded and returned earlier in the school year, when his father dies. A roll of distant thunder outside brings vague concern, a half-formed thought as he carefully pierces through a cicada’s thorax that Dad had better hitch a ride with whoever’s the most sober before it starts raining again. It’s bad enough that none of them takes the role of designated driver seriously enough to do more than cut back maybe a drink or two at most no matter who draws the short straw when the roads aren’t wet. 

  
The drunk driving always itched at the back of Will’s brain worse than whiskey-soured breathing or the sad twang of guitar from a crackling old stereo and muffled bitten-back utterances from down the hall ever could, though he learns to stop voicing his worries when they’re only met with a quick side hug and an amused snort. _“Who’s the parent here again? It’s my job to fret about you, kiddo, not the other way ’round.”_ In the end though, it isn’t drunk driving that leaves Will Graham half-orphaned a few months shy of thirteen after all. It’s only one careless slip backwards on a rain-slicked pier, a tumble into night-dark waters that sends the other guys into a laughing fit, until it dawns on them as their guffaws and giggles die down that there is no splashing or disgruntled cursing under the boards beneath their feet and one of them jumps in after him seconds later. None of them had heard over their own laughter the crack of Levi Graham’s skull against a damp splintering post or a snap as the angle of impact twisted his head roughly to one side. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway if they had.

  
He spends a few weeks with a foster family that owns a ranch while the social workers desperately scramble to figure out a way to contact his absent mother. The chores they have him do in the stables after school lets out in the afternoons are a nice distraction. He even warms up a little to one of the other foster kids working alongside him, an older boy named Peter who was kicked by one of the horses about a year back and now has a stutter and an atypical motor response. Peter doesn’t blame the horse or the owners, and Will isn’t as surprised as he wants to be that the incident somehow didn’t result in them losing their access to all the free labor.

  
He is far more surprised when Child Services finally manages to track his mother down that she doesn’t leave him in the care of the ranchers, and instead is waiting for him, sitting stiff and awkward on their ugly monstrosity of a hide leather couch in the sprawling, oversized living room decorated like a tacky homage to Clint Eastwood and John Wayne films one afternoon after the bus drops him off. The television is on despite no one watching—a rerun of Gunsmoke the rancher’s wife must have had on in the background before Eleanor arrived, now playing on mute—and the cicadas scream in the oak and chestnut trees outside as the screen door swings shut behind him.


	2. The Second Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day!? Guess what, guys, I'm actually working _ahead_ on this story instead of just flying by the seat of my pants as usual (shocking, I know) so for at least the next little bit before I run out of steam y'all should hopefully be able to expect _weekly_ updates! Yep, color me surprised too.
> 
> This chapter's song is for Eleanor: [After the Glitter Fades](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DajKmPkNmmo) by Stevie Nicks.

The second time Will loses her, she is more than just a name. She is Eleanor Abellard, formerly Graham before she changed her name back because talent managers told her it didn’t roll off the tongue as sweet, but she is also a pianist-for-hire whose skills are solicited for church services, weddings, and funerals—the sort of gigs where she’s doing her job well if she fades anonymously into the background even as the room fills with sweet, lilting melodies from her fingertips. She gave up on the notion of “making it big” as an artist after realizing she didn’t really like the limelight, but sometimes still craves the attention enough to play for more appreciative audiences in lounges and smoke-filled bars, even if she sometimes has to ignore men who saunter up to drop bills into her tip jar more to get a better look at her face or the curves beneath her dress than her hands. The melodies which haunt the halls in Will’s new home are less Merle Haggard now and more jazz piano broken up between smoke breaks by recordings of Stevie Nicks and Fleetwood Mac. 

  
Eleanor sometimes keeps late hours, which Will is already used to from his other life with Levi. He is fairly self-sufficient by now and doesn’t need much, so her habits and routines don’t have to change much to accommodate his presence either. She shows her quiet appreciation by occasionally disrupting his routine, calling the school to tell them he’ll be out sick so she can take him to the movies, to mid-afternoon brunches where she orders them both tall stacks of chocolate chip pancakes doused in cherries and whipped cream— _Will never tells her he doesn’t really have much of a sweet tooth_ —and even on a few memorable occasions to a beach more than an hour’s drive away.

  
They both know why she does it, and both hold silent agreement never to comment upon it. She doesn’t ask how he’s coping, and he doesn’t ask how she is, because they both already know the answer.

  
He was going to, on that first night in her tiny studio apartment, after he finally pushed past the numbness and found his resentment, relishing the acrid taste of it in the back of his throat. Was going to demand an explanation for all of it, why did she leave, why did she come back for him, did she even care that Levi was dead? 

  
Only when he got up from his temporary makeshift cot to confront her, she was outside, taking long slow drags from a cigarette on the balcony, her arms crossed over the railing in front of her, staring out at nothing. It was his first chance to really look at her without being observed in kind, thanks to the blinds being pulled back from the sliding glass door, and to see her was to finally know her. Tired, empty, a little lost, wearing mascara that didn’t run even though her eyes were a bit red, she reminded him of a statue in the park that changed colors rapidly in the wind and rain no matter how often it was carefully refinished, made of the wrong sort of material to weather the elements outside yet still managing to withstand them time and again without its edges smoothing out into some unrecognizable shape. Even when he stood close enough to the glass to be noticed she never tilted her head to meet his gaze, never moved at all until her cigarette was mostly ash and it was time to head back inside. They both went back to bed and didn’t speak again until the following morning, when she asked him if he wanted to go with her to get donuts.

  
Eleanor has a knack for most people that far surpasses his own, a gift for smiling prettily with sincerity in her eyes that has them tripping over themselves to share their innermost thoughts and life stories, their voices flowing in and out through her like water through a sieve. Will understands better now why there is a curious hollowness to her that only he can see, and that she knows he sees. It awes him almost as much as it frightens him. He’s envious of her sometimes, but then he thinks back to that night on the balcony and wonders how many other nights both before and after it she considered leaning over just a little bit more, just a little too far to catch herself before quietly slipping over the railing. He’s positive she wouldn’t make a sound apart from the dull thud of concrete. He loves her, in spite of the private vow he’d made to himself not to get attached when they met.

  
Will never fears suicide the way he used to fear drunken accidents, despite knowing even when they move into a slightly bigger apartment with separate bedrooms and no balcony that she is always one step away from the edge. One step but no step further. She is steadfast in this one constant. Suicide is not Eleanor Abellard’s fate.

  
Will is fifteen. It’s Thanksgiving. They’ve ordered Chinese takeout for dinner. The doorbell rings and his mother answers. She takes longer than he would expect to come back to the kitchen, so he moves closer, into the open archway between the tiny dining area and living room. His mother’s back is to him and the man she’s talking to is not a delivery driver. Will knows because the only package in his hand is a bouquet of drugstore flowers, and because delivery drivers don’t step over the threshold of a client’s door with such brisk, entitled confidence. Eleanor instinctively steps backward to allow him the space to do it even though she clearly doesn’t want him to come in. It’s clear to Will at least, who knows his mother’s tells, though not to the man with smiling, shining blue eyes. He hands Will’s mother the flowers with giddy, boyish shyness that is partly just affectation, partly earnest.

  
“Abel, you shouldn’t have,” Eleanor says, smiling, charming and sweet, cradling the bouquet loosely against her chest without looking at it, like it means about as much to her as a loaf of stale bread.

  
“Shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t…and yet.” Her admirer spreads his hands outward, fingers splaying wide, before dropping them to his sides again. “It’s done, Ell. I left her. For good this time.”

  
“On Thanksgiving?” Eleanor’s tone is more teasing than truly chiding, _‘Oh, you incorrigible rapscallion, whatever am I going to do with you?’_ it says. Will can feel the tension bunched up in her back aching down his own spine. Slowly he takes a step back, intending to sneak silent and unseen back into the kitchen to grab a large knife. It’s unfortunate timing that this is when “Abel” gets restless from just standing there and starts moving around the room.

  
“Don’t fret over poor little Ines, I left her in good hands…with her…parents,” he says, finishing the sentence after a dragged-out pause as he finally spots the boy lurking between rooms. “You have a son.” He says this without any of the earlier forced jollity, without any inflection at all. There is no change at all in Eleanor’s posture or friendly expression, but Will feels the cold drip of her panic like ice water trickling in rivulets over his skin. “You never mentioned a son.”

  
“Just like you never mentioned a wife, until the second date.” She’s smiling again to take some of the sting out of her words. “After which I was a little reluctant to share more about myself or my personal life. Surely you can understand why.”

  
“So that’s why you stopped returning my calls.” Suddenly Abel is all smiles again, baring for the both of them a wide, toothy grin. “I mean, I get it now, of course I do. I did think it strange, I hadn’t guessed you were the type to get so hung up about some hasty misguided vows and an unfortunate prenup signed in the follies of my youth, but turns out you had more to think about than just the risk of a little heartbreak, didn’t you, Ellie dear?”

  
Ellie was one of the iterations of her name that Will would hear from his father sometimes, when he waxed nostalgic over his glass about happier times and was a little too far gone to be sad about it. He wonders if it bothers her to hear it coming out of this stranger’s mouth as much as it does him, decides that it must when her smile tightens a fraction and she admits just a shade too honestly, “You’re right, that risk was negligible compared to my other concerns.”

  
Abel’s jaunty demeanor freezes again, a second longer this time, a second in which Will thinks again about the knife block in the kitchen, but the man returns his focus immediately to Will once he recovers it. “C’mere, lad, don’t hang back there all quiet and moody and shy, I promise I don’t bite!” There is a building pressure in the air around them that Will senses will snap prematurely if he dares disobey. Reluctantly he does as he’s told and tries harder to follow Eleanor’s lead in not showing his reluctance and projecting only nonchalant, oblivious calm. 

  
Eleanor’s arm comes around him and he barely stops himself from twitching in time. His mother rarely initiates any kind of physical contact, and those rare examples are more featherlight and fleeting than Levi’s brief hugs and calloused hands ruffling up his hair had been. He’s suspected for a while that casual affection is too much for her to handle, even more so than it can be for Will, though she allows it from others far more than he ever would. Will is the only one she is honest with in her quirks, and only because she cannot hide them from him. Now though, his mother holds him tightly to her side as though she would fuse him right through her skin into the protective cage of her bones if she could. Now that Will is close enough to their “houseguest” to count the hairs in Abel’s mustache, close enough to pick up on a faint smell reminiscent of iron and salt on his hands, her composure fractures into more hairline cracks which—hopefully—still only he can see.

  
“Cat still got your tongue? We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other from now, I should think, so you’ll have to start warming up to me sooner or later,” Abel chuckles. “Come on, what’s your name, lad? What are your hobbies? Do you like sports? Video games? Girls? Ha, I won’t make you get into specifics about that last one in front of your mother. We can save the topic for a one-on-one chat another time.” Abel winks. Will does his best to fake his way through being _sociable_ like there’s nothing disconcerting about this whole situation at all. Eleanor keeps her arm around him the entire time.

  
“Sweetheart,” she eventually interrupts, and pet names are another thing Eleanor never does—this, he suspects, because she feels even now like she hasn’t earned the right to give him one—“Will, baby, have you called your dad yet?” She clicks her tongue in a chiding manner when he shakes his head. “Well, you’d better do it now before we sit down to eat. You know how much he looks forward to hearing from you, especially on the holidays.”

  
The floor plan is not designed so that Will can detour back through the kitchen to get to his mother’s room where the phone is. He tries not to look as if he’s in a rush, neither to leave nor to hurry back, as he makes his way down the hall, straining his ears to keep listening to their conversation. He doesn’t think Eleanor caught the iron-salt smell—he told her once that a rat or something must have died in one of the walls, but she hadn’t believed enough to call the landlord until she could smell it herself two mornings later—but her instincts are sharp. When Abel rebuffs the offer to take his jacket so he can join them a little more sharply than he’d spoken to her before, she drops the subject easily without comment, and Will walks a little faster.

  
“Hey, Dad,” he speaks into the receiver as soon as the line picks up, without shutting the door fully behind him so if Abel tries to listen he’ll be able to tell there isn’t any “funny business” going on behind his back. He has no time to waste even a passing thought on the strangeness of a phrase he hasn’t uttered in almost three years before the 911 operator tries to correct him on his “mistake.” He keeps talking over them before they can hang up, “Yeah, it was just me and Mom here, til her new boyfriend showed up to surprise us.” That shuts them up long enough for the wheels to start turning. 

  
Thankfully, Will lucked out and got someone who catches on quick, allowing him to hum misleading or vaguely worded answers to their questions— _“Do you feel you are in immediate danger?”_ “Mm-hm, sure do.” _“Can you and your mother safely leave the premises without arousing suspicion?”_ “Nah, you know how crazy people get on Black Friday. It’ll be a bloodbath out there.” _“Can you tell us where you are located?”_ “We moved to that new place, remember? Are you sure you sent it to the right address? No, it’s eighty-seven Sycamore, Dad…yeah, apartment three sixty-two.” _“Ok, someone is being dispatched to you now.”_ “Uh-huh, we’ll tell the super to keep an eye out for any packages that come in. Ok, thanks. Love you too, bye!” The dispatcher of course tries to keep him on the line, wanting to get more details and a description, but the phone is corded and he’s too anxious to get back to Eleanor, not sure if he should be relieved or worried by how little noise he can hear coming from the living room anymore. He hangs up on them mid-sentence and hopes they take the hint to hurry things along if they can.

  
There’s no one in the living room anymore, but the iron smell…it’s stronger now, almost _warmer,_ even with their strange visitor nowhere in sight.

  
He sees her hands first from where he’s standing on the other side of the couch. Her beautiful pianist’s fingers resting lax and loose in a bed of spilt flowers soaking damp into the carpet. Drugstore lilies covered in droplets of glistening dew and shining arterial red. He steps further into the room, intending to skirt around the couch to get a look at the rest of what lies on the other side.

  
He’s knocked breathless by the heavy looming weight that slams against his back, and would stumble forward if not for the thick arm that comes around him, pinning him in place. He doesn’t think, just reacts, putting all of his strength into both hands to hold back the other wrist that enters his vision with a flash of steel. There is no sound save for the exertion in both their breaths and the sudden sharp rap on the other side of the door. _How did they get here so fast?_ No time to think about that, not when the shock of it spurs Abel’s frenzy on, the arm clamped around Will’s waist falling away now to wrap another hand around the fist holding the knife. He’s not strong enough to hold back the force of a fully grown man putting all of his own strength behind a blade currently aimed at his jugular and _there is no time_ to wait for the cops to break down the damn door already, no time to think anymore, so Will gives himself to instinct and _lets go,_ both literally and figuratively.

  
He twists out of the way as much as he can, crying out when the blade sinks into skin, but at least it catches him in the shoulder instead of his neck. He’s reaching back already, letting his fingers snag into Abel’s hair to hold the man’s head as steady as he can while he throws his own head back. He can hear and feel the man’s nose crack, but the groan of pain behind him is nothing to the wild howl that rings out when Will slides his grip forward enough to press his thumbs into the man’s eyes. Abel doesn’t even try to stab him again, just burrows the blade a little deeper until his fingers lose their grip and enough sense returns for him to realize his energies will be better spent getting Will’s hands off him instead.

  
The arm attached to his wounded shoulder is yanked away easily, tearing another scream from Will’s throat, but he’s past thinking about getting away and just hangs on with his other hand for as long as possible, pushing and pushing and _pushing_ his thumb in as deeply as he can.

  
The distant pounding gives way as the door finally splinters inward and crashes open, just as he’s tossed to the floor, catching himself with a wince as the impact jostles his bad shoulder more. The man who rushes in isn’t a police officer, clad only in jeans and a dark T-shirt emblazoned with the Red Dragon Wok logo on it. The room now smells of blood and flowers and deep fried egg rolls, and Will would laugh if the fingers of his good hand had not just grazed the handle of the knife.

  
The man who rushed in tackles Abel to the floor and punches him once, twice, then lays a muscular arm over the man’s throat and keeps him pinned down until all of the fight leaves him and Abel just lies there, clutching his free hand to the ragged ruin of his eye. Blood and filmy mucus leaks between his fingers, milky pink and white.

  
Will stands and turns to face them both, the knife now in his hand. The man from the restaurant looks up at him and says nothing, face impassive and almost disinterested as Will steps closer.

  
A hand grabs Will’s arm from behind, eliciting another wordless shout from him as he tries to spin around, but now there are multiple arms holding him in place. “Whoa, hey, hey, _hey,_ easy, kid! Quick, get the knife from him, _get the knife!”_

  
“Be gentle with the boy.” His rescuer’s words are methodical, quiet, unhurried. _Trying to hide a speech impediment,_ Will’s brain supplies hazily, then loses interest just as quickly, his reason returning at last to tell him that it’s two of his neighbors who have spilled into the room to hold him back from Abel. One of them succeeds in pulling the knife out of his now lax fingers. “This one beneath me is the aggressor. He attacked first.”

  
“How can you tell?” one of them asks, but half of the hands on him fall away and the ones that remain loosen and seem to only be there now to offer support instead of restraint, the clear authority and confidence in the man’s voice enough to appease them both.

  
“I can,” the man from Red Dragon Wok answers simply.

  
“Sweet _Jesus,_ is that…? That’s Miss Abellard from down the hall, isn’t it? Shit, down the hall is here. Right. I’m rambling, sorry, I just, I ain’t never seen a body before. _Fuck.”_

“For Chrissake, don’t talk about the boy’s mother like that in front of him—”

  
“Hell though, kid, I can’t blame you for wanting to get a crack at the bastard now while he’s down. I would too if it was my mom. Got half a mind to help anyway if you want another shot at it. Miss Abellard was _nice.”_

  
“Would you shut the hell up and just help me get him outside? Hey, uh, hey, kid, we’re just gonna step out into the hall for a minute, yeah? Let me see if I can’t get my wife to look at that shoulder for you, see how bad it is before an ambulance gets here, alright? Kid?”

  
Will stares down at the bloodied patch where his shoulder continues to drip onto the carpet, saying nothing. He still doesn’t like to be touched by strangers but continues to let them anyway, lets himself be steered outside and forced to sit down on the floor too, and looks at no one no matter how much they and some others poking their heads out now from their own doors keep chattering ceaselessly around him until the police finally show up, followed soon after by paramedics.

  
The man from the Chinese restaurant spares him little more than a glance as he steps out to leave Abel in the police’s hands. The containers of food Eleanor had ordered have been left just outside the door, stacked carefully and neatly against the wall, thoughtfully arranged out of the way of passing foot traffic. Will looks at them instead of the man some of his neighbors are already thanking and calling a hero. The man does not respond to any of them as a police officer leads him away somewhere quieter for further questioning. Will never even learns his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed Francis Dolarhyde's first and last cameo appearance. I just couldn't resist.


	3. Mementos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A Place To Fall Apart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ad9De8V07a4) by Merle Haggard.

He does learn later that before coming to their apartment, Dr. Abel Gideon had stabbed his wife and both in-laws a grand total of forty-six times over a still-steaming spread of oven-roasted turkey, stuffing, and canned store-bought cranberry sauce, then changed into a fresh shirt and stopped at a local pharmacy chain where he’d picked up the flowers on his way over.

The damage to his shoulder is, thankfully, mostly superficial the doctors tell him. It had been dislocated in the scuffle—that’s what they call it, _a scuffle_ —but that’s an easy enough fix and the stab wound isn’t too deep or severe despite first appearances, though he would need to stay on top of his antibiotics and physical therapy regimens to prevent infection and permanent loss of mobility. Will nods along to their advice and murmurs his responses when appropriate. He doesn’t ask who’s footing the bill for all of this. Somewhere, some faceless bureaucrat is probably looking over budget costs and grumbling about not being able to charge wards of the state later for the cost of their care once they reach their majority.

The belongings they allow him to keep all fit into one large overstuffed duffel bag. Some clothes, some books, some CDs, his Walkman and headphones, and his GameBoy and the few cartridges he has for it inside a cardboard shoebox he has to crumple and smush to make it all fit. They don’t allow him to linger long in the living room, not that he much wants to anyway.

Buried in the middle of his things is a small, plain wooden box lined with fake velvet, what was supposed to be a jewelry box Levi had made for his own mother in shop class when he was Will’s age— _Will’s fingers clench around it briefly with the realization that he never made anything with his own hands for Eleanor, too old when he met her for the macaroni and construction paper art that used to decorate Levi’s beer fridge, too overloaded with science electives to take shop or art classes, thinking he’d make time for one maybe in junior or senior year_ —but now houses a single fishing lure, unfinished. The last one Levi ever worked on, just speckled feathers and down tied to a hook Will has wrapped in muslin so it won’t snag on anything (and so no one will notice how sharp it is and confiscate it for safety).

Wrapped around the muslin now too is a silk scarf, dusky blue and beaded in silver-and-gold-traced constellations the pattern of roses. It smells like perfume and cigarettes. He’d grabbed it out of his mother’s room, claiming to have forgotten something in there. The social worker had quirked a brow when she saw it. The second her expression starts to shift Will turns away, too late to avoid the sudden rush of dawning understanding and pity but quick enough not to absorb it too deeply.

Will settles comfortably into that familiar numbness for the first couple of days at the new care facility. He’s practical-minded and keeps his head down while also keeping himself busy by getting ahead in assignments and class readings when he runs out of homework to do. It’s like the ranch again but more sterile and boring, no back-breaking chores to tire him out and keep his hands occupied, the walls painted yellow with rainbow handprints buried under cheesy motivational posters and stock photo landscapes and sign-up sheets for after-school programs.

He has even less interest than before in getting to know anyone else there. Almost asks if he can call Peter, who he’s sort of kept in touch with over the years. He should be eighteen by now. Maybe they’ll let Will declare emancipation if he gets an adult who aged out of the foster system to vouch for him, sell them some line about Will’s mature responsible attitude and mental stability. On the other hand, Peter is more observant than others give him credit for and bad at lying. Will doesn’t call him.

The first night that he’s finally too exhausted to keep himself awake anymore, his sight blurring too much when he strains his eyes to read by the fluorescent hallway lights through the crack under the door, he goes to sleep. The first night he sleeps, he dreams it’s Levi bursting through the door of the apartment. He holds a gun out in front of him in a police officer’s stance but doesn’t fire, his hands shaking, clearly afraid he’s going to hit Will if he shoots.

Will is so shocked by the sight of him that he doesn’t struggle this time, doesn’t fight, and the knife glides cleanly under his adam’s apple, leaving a red smile in its wake. He falls to the floor and starts drowning in a rising tide of blood and lilies while his father watches helplessly.

His vision turns black. Calloused fingers with chewed stubby nails trail the skin under his right eye. _“I’m so sorry, kiddo.”_ Soft, long, manicured fingers whisper along the fringe above his brow. _“I’m sorry, I tried, I just wanted to do right by you for once.”_ He can’t tell if the voice is a man’s or a woman’s, or even if it’s the same one.

He wakes up before the other boys in his dorm room, an instant snap to awareness that doesn’t allow for the usual hazy transition between REM and full consciousness. He turns onto his stomach so he can smother his face into the pillow under his head while his left arm in its sling digs uncomfortably into his stomach, cracks his jaw open wide, and screams without making a sound. Screams silently without air, fingers of his right hand squeezing one end of the pillow, trembling from vibrations buzzing along his nerves like insect wings from how rigidly he tries to hold his entire body straight from neck to toes. Screams without actually screaming until he starts to go dizzy from lack of oxygen. Then slumps loose-limbed against the mattress purely from exhaustion, grimacing at the damp spot under his ear when he turns his head, his nose stopped up and dripping, his eyes swollen and aching, panting breaths swirling in and out ragged across his lips.

He picks up the pillow and puts his head under it, pulls the blanket up over it too, and pretends to be asleep when the other boys wake up half an hour later. One of them smacks him playfully on the butt with their own pillow when they try to rouse him. He ignores it and they soon go back to ignoring him too, getting dressed and shuffling out of the room for breakfast. Will stays in bed and doesn’t fall back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly, not much is actually happening plot-wise this chapter, but it felt important to set the scene for how Will's doing right now mentally and emotionally. The answer, shockingly, is Not That Great.


	4. Ardelia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wild Horses](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wscB1ckO_Ew) by The Sundays. A little embarrassed to admit I didn't know this was a Rolling Stones song first, but this dreamy 90s version is the one I grew up with.

Will Graham holds himself together well for someone who’s lost so much in such a short span of life so far, but Ardelia is used to seeing all kinds of trauma and the thousands of ways each can reshape a person into someone they never necessarily wanted nor expected to become. Every child in her caseload is different, and it’s gotten easier over the years to learn what makes each one tick and how to provide whatever they need from her beyond the basic scope of her job. Easier, but never easy.

Case in point, this boy is more of a brick wall to her than most, closed off and interested in talking only as much as he needs to, like their meetings are some sort of test he needs to pass but believes he will surely fail if he gives away too much of what he’s really thinking to her. She hates to imagine how he must have been treated the last time he went through something like this to make him think that way. She’d like to have more faith in everyone in her profession, but…she knows better. For every bunch of them who are just like her, there’s always one or two out there who treat it like it’s just any other job, or worse, who seem like they’re actively looking for ways to make it all the kids’ faults that they’re here.

While she has a hard time figuring Will out, Will appears to have little trouble figuring out others, much as he always tries to keep to himself. A brick wall with eyes. Eyes which are, at this moment, fixed to one spot on her desk which she realizes belatedly is the bottom half of her application to the FBI Academy, tentatively drafted and unfinished still, poking out from a stack of other papers she’d tossed on top of it before he came in. Surely he hadn’t been reading it upside down? Embarrassed nonetheless, she picks up the stack and straightens it so the letter is appropriately hidden from view this time.

“You think you’ll be less miserable at that job than this one?”

His words startle her into blurting a short, defensive, _“What?”_ She winces at the way he seems to wilt at her tone. _Nice one, Ardelia._ She pastes on her best smile, the one that usually makes even the older kids she works with want to smile back. Will isn’t looking at her though, so he doesn’t. “I’m not miserable. I love what I do here.”

“You’re proud of what you do because you’re a good person, but you don’t love it.” Brick by brick, the wall comes down, but it’s not _his_ wall that Will dismantles in that curiously flat voice. “You knew it would be hard but not _this_ hard. It’s tearing you apart a little bit more every day. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re bad for wanting to do something else instead. I’d be a hopeless wreck within a week of trying to do your job. At least at that one, you have a chance to get rid of some of the bogeymen for good, or at least put them away for a long time, instead of just chasing them out from under a few kids’ beds each night, knowing you’ll have to do it all over again for the same ones the next night and it won’t always stop them from getting hurt again later.”

Ardelia clasps her hands on the desk together in front of her to hide the fact that they’ve started shaking. She can’t bring herself to stop staring at the teen who won’t even look up at her, shamefully glad that he isn’t looking, if this is what it feels like to be stripped down to her core from just one peek at a _letter_.

The longer she stares without being able to say anything, the more Will looks uncomfortable and starts to squirm in his seat. “Sorry, I…” He pauses, rolling his lips into his mouth to wet them. “I usually know better than to just say what I’m thinking to people who don’t want to hear it…even if, even when they, um, probably needed to.”

_Yes,_ she realizes. _Yes, I did need to hear it. How did you know? You’re right. It’s true, all of it. This work is KILLING ME. I want to help, but I can’t stand it anymore! And you, you knew without even looking at me! How did you do it? You’re right about that other part too, if that’s how much you got from one goddamn application letter. This job would break you even faster than it’s broken me._

The last thought is enough for her to remember herself and who she’s with. Not a grim oracle come to weigh her soul. Certainly not her damn therapist she can unload everything onto. Just a boy, a terrifyingly insightful but still only fifteen-year-old boy who just lost his mother in the most ghoulish way imaginable and needs her help now, not the other way around.

With a calming breath, Ardelia lets go of the inappropriate urge to spill everything she was just thinking and finds her smile again. She has a girlfriend at home who will stroke her hair and pour her a glass of wine later, who will be _so glad_ to hear that her Del has finally decided to talk about everything she’s been bottling up all this time, even if she’s a little afraid of the prospect of explaining where her sudden breakthrough came from. She’s also not at the Academy yet either, assuming she even gets in. There’s still work to be done here first.

“Do you know why I wanted to see you in my office today, Will?” For the first time today, Will’s gaze pulls upward, all the way to her chin. He frowns thoughtfully as if he’d forgotten this visit was supposed to be about _him_ and is confused by the subject change. “I have news to share. It took a little digging to find contact information that was up to date, but we finally got in touch with your father.” Will doesn’t react as she’d hoped to this news. Instead he seems more confused, even a bit annoyed.

“Is that supposed to be funny? I didn’t take you for the type to make cruel jokes like that. Did what I said upset you that much?”

“Will, I promise it’s not a joke. I spoke to him myself this morning.” A worrying suspicion forms as he gets visibly more agitated. Will isn’t the first one to express some surprise at this situation, after all, though the other had been far more accepting of what she had to say once that surprise wore off.

“Unless government agencies are sanctioning séances now and this is the first I’m hearing about it, I very much doubt it.”

He’s right to doubt her, if for the wrong reasons. She’s very much off her game because of earlier if she _fucking forgot_ to check how much he already knew before she just _announced_ it like that. _Del, you idiot!_ “I’m so sorry, Will, I…he didn’t know about you before now either. I should have realized it might not have just been him.” There’s no way to back out of it now and start over to ease him into the idea more gently, but she has to at least right this wrong footing between them before it gets worse. _Christ,_ maybe she really isn’t cut out for this job anymore. “Please know that I would never make light of your adoptive father’s passing either. I’m sorry the way I spoke made it sound that way. It wasn’t my intention.”

She half-expects him to blow up, to yell at her that he doesn’t know what she’s talking about and she’d better start making sense fast, but the reaction she gets instead is far worse. He just…deflates, the last of his indignation flickering out at the phrase _‘your adoptive father’s passing,’_ leaving in its wake an expression that makes him look small, helpless, _betrayed,_ and every bit as young as he is. “Where is this coming from?” he asks, voice almost a whisper.

“It’s on your birth certificate,” she tells him gently. “I take it your parents never showed it to you.” It’s not a question anymore, but Will shakes his head anyway.

“I want to see it now.” His voice is back to its earlier monotone. Part of her wants to reach across the desk and squeeze his hand, but she doesn’t think he’d react well to that at the moment, if ever. He appreciates directness and practicality, that much she knows at least. Without another word, she flips open the file with all of his documentation inside and slides over the one in question. Though he doesn’t know to ask for it, she also passes over the once-sealed envelope that had been paper-clipped to the back of it.

She knows he sees it when his face flickers again, the field where his father’s name should be, the name which is not that of the man who helped raise him and passed away a few years ago. He shifts his focus then to the envelope she handed him, the yellowed one that reads, _‘IN CASE OF EMERGENCY ONLY,’_ in faded, blocky handwriting. The note inside is just a torn scrap from a steno pad, written in a different, most likely feminine hand, containing some of the most frustratingly vague information Ardelia has ever come across for something as vitally important as finding a minor’s next of kin: _‘Yes, that really is his name. I don’t have his number or his Italian address, but he said he was interning at some big renowned hospital in Baltimore starting in July. That’ll be a month after the baby’s born. We shouldn’t try to contact him unless we have to.’_

“I did some research,” Ardelia says just to fill the silence, “and narrowed it down to Johns Hopkins being the likeliest hospital she was talking about. From there, I kept poking around, making calls. HR confirmed that a Hannibal Lecter did start working there in ’82 and stayed on for a number of years, then they patched me through to his old boss who was able to tell me more about his current status and give me a working phone number. Apparently, he runs his own practice now. Psychiatry.”

For a long time, Will doesn’t say anything. She wonders if he might not have heard her, too lost in his own head, which would be understandable after a revelation like this. After a while, he asks in a voice that lacks any kind of expectation behind it, “What did he say when you told him? Did he believe you?”

“He wants a paternity test done,” she admits, more bluntly than she would normally like, knowing that Will would probably prefer it. True to form, he nods as if that’s simply to be expected, which it technically is, but most people his age probably wouldn’t seem so calm about it. She can’t tell what he’s thinking right now. “If you’re comfortable with that, there’s a lab in town I can take you to tomorrow. Dr. Lecter will be mailing his sample in by express mail to make sure it gets there as quickly as possible.”

She leans forward over her desk, wishing desperately that he’d make eye contact with her for once. “That said, it’s still his name on the birth certificate. That’s legally binding even if the results are negative or inconclusive unless he chooses to contest it in court, and he wanted me to assure you that no matter what the results are, even if it’s not a match, he’ll be happy to bring you home with him as soon as possible.” The short, quiet little huff of laughter this elicits is so casual in its disbelief, it cracks her heart further than anything else so far has. “In fact, he’ll be here to pick you up on Thursday,” she finishes, injecting every ounce of earnest sincerity into it she can in hopes that he’ll believe her.

It at least gets another surprised glance upwards, this time up to her nose. “So soon? Will the results even be back by then?”

“Maybe, if we can get a rush order on it.” She wants to emphasize again that it doesn’t matter what the results say, but Will chooses that moment to stand and ask if that’s all or if he can leave now, since he has a lot to think about. She won’t force him to stay just to listen again to reassurances he doesn’t want to hear and is in no state to care about right now anyway.

At the door, he stops and turns back to her, that thoughtful frown on his face once again. “Why do you think they put his name down at all, if they didn’t want him to know about me? They obviously weren’t gonna tell _me_ about him until I had reason to look at my own birth certificate.” And that might have been well after Will had already turned eighteen if they’d had their way, she privately agrees but doesn’t voice aloud. “They could have just lied.”

“I don’t know. I’m sure they had their reasons.” She’s seen parents make a lot of seemingly nonsensical decisions regarding their children’s lives over the years, some of which turned out to be better than others. She can guess why they wouldn’t bother to tell Lecter, if he was just a one-night stand as the note and Lecter’s vague recollection about Eleanor when she’d mentioned her would suggest, but then why _wouldn’t_ they just lie on the certificate? “And I’m sure those reasons were with your best interests in mind. If I had to speculate, I’d say they just wanted to make sure you weren’t left all alone, should the worst happen to them.” And lucky they had, since with no one else to claim him the alternative might have been years being bounced back and forth between foster homes and facilities like this one until Will turned eighteen.

Will rolls his lips back into his mouth once again, considering that. Then he nods, maybe in agreement, maybe just in acknowledgment of her words, and walks out of the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, Hannibal finally makes his first real appearance! Don't ask why it always seems to take me a few chapters of build-up and Will brooding-time to get around to it. Even at 15, he's a very cerebral guy who needs as much breathing room as he can get before Mr. It-Rhymes-With-Cannibal shows up to start changing up the attic floor plans so to speak, our Will. ;)


	5. The Devil's Due

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [O pure émotion!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sSzRyiL5fqY) from Hector Berlioz's La Damnation de Faust, aka the part when Mephistopheles enters the scene ready to fuck shit up. ;)

“I only wish it could be sooner, but I’m afraid it would be impossible to reschedule some of my appointments for the week on such short notice…I appreciate your understanding…Yes, please convey my sentiments to him as well. Thank you. Until Thursday then, Ms. Mapp. Goodbye.” The phone is returned to its cradle with a soft click, his notebook shut on two new entries—an address for the laboratory that had been suggested to send his DNA sample to this afternoon, and another address to the facility where the teenager is currently lodged—and his pen moved so that it sits poised perfectly parallel with the appointment book on his desk once more. His next patient is scheduled to arrive within ten minutes, so for the time being he straightens his waistcoat and quietly shuts the door to the new room in his memory palace which had sprung spontaneously into being not long into his illuminating conversation with the woman from the Department of Human Services, where it will wait to be reopened and its contents examined after Mrs. Friedrich’s hour has concluded and he has made a few phone calls to rearrange his other appointments as needed.

It is a fruitful session. Mrs. Friedrich is on the verge of a major breakthrough regarding the cause of her current anxieties about her husband’s business flight to Prague next month. While he finishes writing up the notes to her file, he mentally drafts two congratulatory notes depending upon the outcome, one where he wishes them both well in their relocation overseas and conveys his hopes that Mr. Friedrich’s new venture succeeds, and one in which he applauds Mrs. Friedrich’s fortitude and recommends an experienced divorce lawyer whom he hears is quite adept at the delicate art of dividing up foreign assets. Once that is done and the necessary calls are made, before returning to the door just yet, Hannibal pulls last week’s issue of _The Tattler_ from a locked filing cabinet in the back of his office storage space.

He keeps an archive of all of his newspaper and magazine subscriptions for a set amount of time in case some article or trivial piece of news is brought to his attention that needs reviewing before the information is old enough to pass out of relevance once more, three months for all monthly subscriptions, one week for all daily newsletters, and one month for all weekly ones. _The Tattler_ is one of his weekly subscriptions, one of the few that is retained in his personal office, instead of in a discreet organizer rack beneath one of the side tables in the waiting room where anyone is welcome to peruse them.

He doesn’t read the majority of _The Tattler_ ’s lurid flashy articles, finding the subject matter for many of them vulgar and uninteresting, but maintains his subscription for the few creative ones that do pique his intrigue and occasional mentions of his own designs. He had skipped over last week’s sensationalist headline, “VIRGINIAN SURGEON CARVES UP OWN FAMILY FOR THANKSGIVING: BUTCHERS WIFE, IN-LAWS, AND MISTRESS ALL WHILE THE TURKEY’S STILL WARM!!” Extramarital affairs and crimes of passion enacted during the stress of the holidays tend to all blur into one common theme and make for rather dull reading.

Hannibal freshens his coffee and takes the paper to his armchair by the fireplace. The contents of the article are much as he had expected. There is Eleanor Abellard’s name, her ignominious end described in all its tawdry detail, dead for the crime of no longer desiring the man who claims he killed for her. In a rare display of tact by the tabloid, her teenage son is not named, nor the exact nature of his injuries addressed, only a statement given that he was briefly admitted to the hospital for critical care but was declared to be in stable condition and released into the DHS’s hands shortly afterwards.

This killer, Abel Gideon, did not come out of the affair entirely unscathed either it seems. He too was admitted to urgent care upon being apprehended. Though the specifics of his injuries have not been released to the public either, they were apparently serious enough to warrant a longer hospital stay under armed guard. Ms. Mapp may be able to fill him in on the details when they are finalizing the last steps and necessary paperwork for a smooth transition of young William into Hannibal’s custody. It is interesting to speculate in the meantime how that encounter might have played out. _Perhaps he truly is my son after all._

He remembers Eleanor Abellard. He was still living in Italy at the time but had taken a trip to Baltimore, preferring to iron out various details of his impending transfer there in person, then gone on to tour more of the vast country that was soon to be his new home. They had met at an airport bar during an extended layover in Tallahassee where she—charming, gracious, and more familiar with the area than he—had invited him on a guided tour of the night life there which ended agreeably in the wee morning hours spent in her hotel room before he returned to the airport terminal to catch his next flight. They had used protection, but he is well aware that such measures are not always entirely effective so that is not enough on its own to cast doubt on her apparent claim.

He could understand falsifying such a claim had she ever sought to contact him for child support payments, but that not being the case he is at a loss for her reasoning, which significantly reduces the likelihood that it is a lie. What little circumstantial evidence he has to go on would suggest she married soon afterward, she and her then-fiancé both already aware of the secret surprise her last hurrah as an untethered woman had wrought yet mutually deciding to continue with the proceedings anyway. He had seen no engagement ring, though it would have made little difference to his own conduct had she been wearing it. A temporary separation then, perhaps, though that is a curiosity which will forever go unanswered with neither of the knowledgeable parties alive now to satisfy it.

He returns at last to the door which patiently awaits in his mind palace. There is no airport bar, no hotel room, and no darkened Floridian streets on the other side of it. There is only his old flat back in Florence, devoid of his own personal touches to the décor in this iteration of it with most of the remaining furniture covered in crisp white sheets, bathed a fine golden red under the Tuscan sunset spilling in through its tall open windows.

At this stage of his memory, when he would have been closing the Florentine chapter on his life in preparation for his move to the United States, William August Graham had been born and Hannibal had stood at these very windows bidding a fond goodbye to the city, entirely unaware of the boy’s existence. In the distant horizon, closer than it should be and visible to the naked eye, the Florentine skyline fades subtly into hauntingly familiar battlements and crenellations overgrown with ivy and studded by the sparkling light of fireflies, nearly indistinguishable from the encroaching twilight appearance of the stars.

Hannibal’s fingers twitch in want of shutting the curtains against the view yet remain otherwise motionless against his sides. Had he the power to restore the dead to life only this once, he would do so now to bring back Eleanor Abellard Graham and inflict fifteen years of slow torture inconceivable even to the most imaginatively heinous servants of Hell before killing her again.

Hannibal draws in a ragged breath through his nose and allows the curtain to fall at last, and the door to close with a secure latch that echoes behind him. It is still possible that the child is not his, at least by blood, though he has no intention of shirking the responsibility that has been unexpectedly foisted upon him in any case. If he is not the father, or even if he is but it turns out he and the boy can find no common ground together and no way to mitigate the inconvenience of their proximity on his regular routines and hobbies, he will secure the best possible care and education available by sending him to a fine boarding school at the start of a new term.

There is enough time between appointments if he leaves now to collect his sample and ship it off before meeting with his next client. After shredding the newspaper, he gathers his coat and gloves and locks up the darkened office behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to place bets on how long Hannibal's resolve to send Will to boarding school if he's too "inconvenient" will last once he actually meets the boy? ;) 
> 
> I'm aware that some folks (lbr, probably *most* folks actually) were hoping that would happen this chapter, enough so that I feel like I kinda accidentally baited and switched y'all even though, if you look closely, you'll see that in the last chapter's end notes I never actually said Hannibal's first appearance would coincide with their introduction! ...ok lol, yeah, that wording might've been my bad tho. Next chapter, they do finally meet, pinky promise!! <3


	6. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Laisse moi, contempler ton visage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grKhJoT7M0M) from Charles Gounod's Faust, or as I like to call it, Faust and Marguerite's "Will we or won't we?" duet. (Spoiler: They will.)

The receptionist calls for Ardelia Mapp to come to the front desk over a rather antiquated looking PA system, further cementing the aesthetic of all underfunded public programs that Hannibal has come to expect. He is fortunately not also subjected to the long waiting period institutional bodies such as these are so often prone to, left to loiter in the lobby only for a few minutes while the receptionist accepts a phone call before he is warmly greeted by a young woman in fashionable curly braids and business casual attire.

“Dr. Lecter, it’s so great to meet you in person!” Her handshake is solid and firm, and she wastes none of his time in idle chitchat before guiding him to the rec room where he is told this “Will” awaits, raising her in his estimation several notches above the average government stooge.

“I suspect with your profession there isn’t much more I could tell you about what he’s going through that you wouldn’t already understand, probably better than me,” she says as they walk. “It can be a little tough getting him to open up and talk at first, but he likes it when you’re upfront and honest with him and he _hates_ anything that he views as ‘sugarcoating,’ so keep that in mind.”

“I certainly shall. Is there anything else I should know before introductions are made?” He prefers to form his own opinions, of course, but it is generally useful to have a window into how any given subject is perceived by others. People are no different in that regard than any other topic of interest.

The question apparently warrants enough deep consideration that she halts in place for a moment. “Will is… _gifted_ is the word I want to use, although that’s frustratingly vague. He’s _incredibly_ bright, Dr. Lecter, and I don’t just mean he makes good grades. He’s…” She trails off, gazing down at her own sensible worn-in shoes as if they might have the words she seeks.

“Please, say what you’re thinking even if you’re worried it may not paint the most flattering picture. I promise not to be frightened off.” Her eyes widen, guilty and caught.

“Don’t misunderstand, he’s a good kid!” she’s quick to reassure. “It’s just…” She takes another moment, meeting his eyes again in what he realizes is a critical assessment of his character and the veracity of his claim that nothing she says will dissuade him from their current course. Hannibal changes nothing in his own expression but allows her to see whatever she needs to regain her earlier confidence and trust.

“He cuts like a knife.” She does not elaborate beyond that curious remark, nor temper it with softer words even though she is ostensibly trying not to discourage him against leaving with the boy today. He is being tested, and he admires her for it. Many in her position, overstressed and overworked as those in her field often are, would be glad to find an orphaned teen any kind of stable home environment and call it a success, yet he is certain if Ardelia Mapp deems him easily rattled and unfit to meet the needs of a “gifted” and troubled adolescent, she will do everything in her limited power to stymie the arrangement and renew the search for a suitable guardian. There is very little she could actually do to make that happen based on only vague, circumstantial cause to doubt his character when Hannibal already has legal claim over the boy and a possible genetic one, which only makes her dedication more impressive.

Mapp seems satisfied when he appears unperturbed and doesn’t make a swift search for the exit, the warmth returning to her gaze with another friendly smile. “You’ll see what I mean soon enough,” is all she adds before continuing down the hall. Hannibal follows, even more curious about this supposed progeny awaiting his arrival than before.

There are few children in the rec room (which could perhaps more aptly be called a playroom) at this hour, almost none of whom are yet of school age. This makes Will rather easy to spot even before Mapp points him out. Hannibal is cognizant of the way his own steps halt in motion when he sees him, almost against his own volition. There is very little else he is aware of in the room at this moment. He cannot fault himself the lapse in attentiveness to his surroundings.

Will is knelt at a colorful plastic table suited in height for preschoolers, head bent over a coloring sheet which he studiously fills in with crayon. As incongruous as this is to what he expected given Will’s age, however, it is not what he is currently doing that arrests Hannibal in place. It is the far-off look of haunted serenity on a lovely face that would bewitch anyone with the soul of an artist. Shadowed sea-storm eyes that could bruise a man with a look. A warm spill of chocolate curls which all but demand to be petted and pulled. Plush rosebud lips which were clearly made to be bitten and kissed. Even as a man with a heightened sense of aesthetics over ethics, Hannibal is unprepared for how viscerally he _wants_.

For so long, he has identified more closely with Mephistopheles, and in his interpretation often considered Doctor Faustus little more than a learned fool, yet in this moment he can understand how a single stolen glimpse of Marguerite was enough to make the man willing to sell his soul, eager to do it even, just for the chance to have her. His foolishness was in casting her aside afterwards, assuming another would ever compare.

“Suddenly, it’s real, isn’t it?” Ardelia asks quietly, mistaking the reason for his stillness. Truly, she is not entirely off the mark. Would he have been so singularly struck on a chance meeting, unknowing of their connection? It is hard to say for sure. She lets out a little sigh. “Of course he’d wait until today to actually engage with somebody else here.” Hannibal assumes she’s referring to the tiny girl at Will’s elbow, no more than four or five years of age at the oldest and coloring her own page just as diligently.

Will stops what he’s doing when he sees them approach. “I have to go with the grown-ups now. Will you finish this for me please?” he asks, sliding his own picture toward the girl, in a tone of utmost seriousness. The smile he gives her when she nods is fleeting but soft. After exchanging goodbyes, he leverages himself up with one hand on the table, the other still in a temporary sling that makes such movements awkward for the time being.

“I’m sorry to tear you away from your friend,” Hannibal says once they are out of earshot from the other children. It’s the first time Will really looks at him, having hardly reacted as Ardelia made their introductions, though his eyes reach no higher than Hannibal’s shoulder. The boy shrugs.

“I don’t actually know her. She said I looked ‘lonesome’ sitting all by myself and asked me to color with her, that’s all.”

Ardelia smiles as she opens the door to Will’s dormitory and ushers them both in ahead of her. “That’s Abigail. She lost a parent too recently.” Off Will’s look, she hastens to add, “Her mother is expected to make a full recovery in the hospital though, and her maternal grandparents will be here to pick her up tomorrow in any case.”

“Just her mother made it?” Ardelia nods, wearing a somber expression that stiffens into muted shock and uncertainty when Will responds to this confirmation with a firm and unwavering, _“Good.”_

“Did…did she say anything to you about what happened?” Ardelia asks, still not quite able to lock away her surprise. She tries to catch Hannibal’s eye meaningfully when the boy shakes his head.

As curious as he is about the conclusions Will seems to have drawn about a girl’s deceased father he’s never met and how accurate they must be, judging by Mapp’s reaction which appears to be only surprise at Will’s knowledge instead of horror at what he actually said, they come a distant second to his curiosity about the boy himself and Hannibal’s desire to know him.

Ms. Mapp clears her throat softly. “I, ah, have the results in my office if you’re ready to see them, Dr. Lecter. I can go grab some water out of the kitchen too while I’m at it, give you guys some time to get acquainted while I’m gone.” Hannibal thanks her and Will plops down on one of the beds, presumably his own, his hand playing distractedly with the zipper of the large green duffel bag beside him. He expects that he will have to carry most of the weight of their conversation to start with, but Will surprises him.

“She offered to show them to me first.” Will’s eyes dart up briefly to Hannibal’s chin before falling to the wayside once more. “Before you got here. I said we should wait, since you’re the one who wanted them anyway.” Hannibal tries to determine if there is any resentment he can hear in Will’s voice, but his read on the teen so far is still unclear.

“Are you not curious as well then?” Hannibal remains standing, folding his hands diffidently behind his back, observing. Will gives what appears to be another shrug with just his head, staring off into space.

“We don’t look anything alike,” he answers, and _there,_ the faintest thread of distress and uncertainty finally gives itself away in a fleeting twitch at the corner of his mouth, like a nervous, unhappy smile quickly aborted before it could fully form. His hand falls away from the bag and he stands, making his way over to the window to look down on the city street below.

It is true, there is little of himself to be seen in the boy who clearly takes after his mother. He has her coloring, her soft classical features, even her muted air of melancholy, here more pronounced and freshly shaded by grief.

Yet looking closely, is there not something in his bearing as he stands motionless by the window that reminds him of Robertus’s solemn, thoughtful gaze? Is that petal-pink, bow-shaped mouth not curiously familiar even without Simonetta’s gracious and warming smile?

Even those charming, impossible to hide ears are so like his sister’s that Hannibal’s remaining doubts crumble and lie forgotten, and with them the last of his ability to hold firm to neutral disinterest. It is no longer a question to _him_ that this fragile young beauty is his son, and Hannibal is impatient to bring him home as soon as possible, and equally unseemly in his sudden desire to pull Will away from the window, to hide him away and allow no other watchful, prying, potentially covetous eyes the privilege of an unhindered view.

Propriety forbids him from taking such drastic action, as does the mid-morning sunlight which brings out spectacular shades of auburn, red, and even some light traces of blond in the boy’s fine dark hair. He joins Will at the window and allows himself one small indulgence that becomes two, meaning at first only to tuck an errant curl back behind Will’s ear but finding himself unwilling to resist the temptation to also delicately trace the ridge of it with one fingertip. “These, I would recognize anywhere,” he admits with a small smile even as Will startles away from his touch.

_“Wh-_ what?” The nervous smile returns like a spasm, along with a disbelieving breath of not-quite laughter. Hannibal wants to trace this crooked line as well but resists that particular impulse.

He leans conspiratorially with one arm resting against the windowsill, his smile turning mischievous. “I used to tell my sister if she did not grow into them as she got older, she would have to grow _out_ instead, fat and wide so she could play the part of the elephant and carry her big brother on her shoulders across the Alps.”

The laugh is genuine this time, though just as startled as the first. His nose also crinkles and his right hand twitches upward, not quite touching the ear that Hannibal touched, as if fighting the urge to self-consciously cover it up.

“Ah, she used to make exactly that face as well.”

“Cut it out,” Will huffs, dropping his hand back to the windowsill. While the smile remains, the mirth behind it doesn’t last, his fingers tapping against the sill in an uncertain pattern once again. “She never did, did she? Grow into them.”

“Nor grow fat.” While Hannibal has too much control over his voice to allow it to come out as a rasp, Will’s expression pinches as if he can hear it anyway.

“I’m sorry.” He appears contrite as if he means about more than just the loss, looking at Hannibal from the corner of his eye without quite turning his head. “You know you…you might just be seeing what you want to, when you look at me.”

“Do you honestly believe it matters if that’s the case?” Will doesn’t have a ready answer to that.

The social worker returns with a gentle rap of knuckles against the doorframe. “I grabbed two more waters since I didn’t think to ask who might want one before I left,” she says, passing a bottle of Evian to each of them. Under her arm is a brown folio organizer that appears to hold all of Will’s documentation, including a sealed envelope from the laboratory, which she pulls out presently and hands off to Hannibal without flourish or ceremony.

Hannibal holds it out for Will to take instead. “I believe the choice should fall to you. What it says will make no difference to where we go from here. You could tear it up right now without ever opening it, if that’s your wish.” He doesn’t miss Ardelia’s surprised, approving smile, but it’s not her reaction that matters. Will seems initially reluctant to take it, as if expecting the gesture to be some sort of trick.

He drops the water bottle next to his bag and takes the envelope, holding it parallel to his resting hand so he can grasp it with both. Hannibal does not offer to help one way or the other, but keeps a guarded lid on his pride when Will begins the slow process of delicately ripping it open instead of apart. Curiosity has won out.

Will’s reaction is his first clue to its contents, which presents a challenge when Will himself seems uncertain how to feel about it, a curious blend of relief, disquiet, and resignation all at once. He passes the note back to Hannibal, who knows exactly how to feel when he reads it for himself, his lips curling into a pleased smile which he does not bother to hide.

“It’s a positive match,” he says for Ms. Mapp’s benefit. Will is _his,_ irrefutably, not only in legality but in blood. His legitimacy is one less route by which anyone could possibly justify any future attempt to take the boy away from him now, negligible as that risk might have been.

“Congratulations, you two,” Ms. Mapp says warmly. The rest of the file she gives him contains all of the bureaucratic trappings to go with child-rearing that he expects—legal identification, school records, medical documentation concerning Will’s visit to the ER and such. She explains the doctor’s orders on PT for his shoulder while Will picks up his bag. He is taken off guard when Hannibal reaches to take the bag from him, but allows it after a moment of hesitation and an awkward thank you. He takes up the water bottle sweating condensation onto his rumpled bedsheets next and frowns as if irked that this is his only burden now to carry.

Once this polite song-and-dance to cut through what remains of any red tape draws to a close, Hannibal leaves by the same door he came in through more joyously burdened than before, a cheap canvas bag slung over one arm while the other protectively hovers at his son’s back, gently guiding him down cracked concrete steps towards his car, and towards home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a very good chance that if Will had torn up the results, a certain someone might've been tempted to slip him a sedative later and swipe another DNA sample in secret to use for a new test anyway...y'know, just the usual totally normal and reasonable kind of thing our resident cannibal would do in the face of pesky obstacles like "autonomy," "privacy," and "consent."


	7. Heading Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sorcerer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i0BU2zI7Enc) by Stevie Nicks. Our Will and Hannibal here may have only known each other for a few hours at best, but you can't listen to this song and tell me it wouldn't at least make canon!Will think of that cannibal asshole he fell over a cliff for. ;)

Will halts, wide-eyed when he sees which vehicle Dr. Lecter is leading him to. He doesn’t really know cars, but he knows when he sees something that outclasses everything else in the lot by a long shot and probably costs more than the property values of every place he’s ever lived in combined. It’s practically a small miracle that it hadn’t been broken into while they were inside.

“Is something the matter, Will?” the man— _his father_ —asks, already sliding Will’s hideous green duffel into the trunk. Even there, it doesn’t look like it really belongs, and trunks are _supposed_ to be where all the unsightly junk goes. Will is pretty sure he’s never seen one so spacious, devoid of clutter, and meticulously _clean_ in his life.

“It’s not going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight, is it?” Immediately he wishes he could take back those words, to at least spare himself some embarrassment that doesn’t have to do with how badly his scuffed up, worn down sneakers are going to clash with the fancy leather upholstery.

“Still waiting for the other shoe to drop?” There’s a bit of relief when he actually plays along with the analogy instead of just laughing at Will outright. It makes him worry a bit less about where a little honesty will lead them.

“Afraid I’m going to cut myself on the pieces when it shatters,” he admits.

“Fortunately, I was a surgeon before I was a psychiatrist. Should you need stitching, you can rest assured you will be in capable hands.” Will laughs, still uneasy, but it actually works at making him feel a bit better where a blanket promise that all would be nothing but smooth sailing from here on out wouldn’t have.

Still, he can’t help but feel self-conscious as he gets in. It’s spacious and clean up front as well, because how could it not be when it had looked like that in the back where no one would see it anyway? The water bottle in his hand is still dripping condensation. Will it leave water stains around the cupholder? Should he just hold it instead?

That question is answered when Dr. Lecter sets his own bottle in the driver’s side cupholder, then casually produces a handkerchief to wipe the remaining moisture from his hand before touching the steering wheel. “It’s just a car, Will,” he says, gently amused. It must have been obvious what he was thinking, his tense posture as if he should be touching as little of the seat as possible a dead giveaway.

“Right.” He chuckles the same way he would if Lecter had said it was just a spaceship. He does drop the other bottle into his own cupholder though, wiping his wet hand on the knee of his jeans, and tries to settle in and relax. It’s going to be a long drive to Baltimore.

“Seatbelt on, please,” Lecter says, not even putting the car in reverse to pull out of the space yet until Will obeys. Will takes his glasses out of his jacket pocket and puts them on before they pull out onto the road.

“I’m kind of near-sighted,” he unnecessarily explains, though the man had given little more than a glance in his direction at the movement, keeping his eyes mainly to the road in front of them. He can’t stand the thought of not being able to see where they’re going, even if the landscape and street signs only really start to blur at about a hundred feet or more ahead.

Normally he would have been wearing them already anyway, especially in a place full of so many people like the one they just left, but the temptation to hide behind them earlier would have been too great. It seemed wrong to want to hide from the man who might turn out to be—who now most certainly is—his biological father. It still rattles around strangely in his skull. _His father._ It’s not just some weird clerical error or a terrible practical joke his parents never got the chance to explain.

Something soft and classical plays soothingly in the background, the speakers turned down low enough that he had barely noticed it at first above the hiss of tires on the road. “Your accent doesn’t sound Italian.” He’d been curious since the man first spoke but hadn’t wanted to come across as rude. The quiet surety of the road makes him braver now.

“I’ve had the good fortune to live a well-traveled life. Before Italy, I spent many of my formative years in France, mainly Paris. Before that, I was born and raised for the earlier half of my youth in Lithuania.”

Will would be lying to say he isn’t a little dazzled by this information, but he won’t let it distract him. “Think you’ve got a ton of bastard children like me scattered all across the globe somewhere?” he dares to joke, testing.

It’s the first time he hears his father laugh, a short breathy chuckle, delightfully surprised and bordering on wry, probably aware that Will is exploring boundaries at the moment and making a choice not to call him out on it. Will catches himself listening to it extra carefully, trying to tell if it bears any similarity to his own. “No, in fact I find it exceedingly doubtful there are any others. You’re one of a kind, Will.”

“Lucky me, I guess. So…no other family to speak of?” Will thinks he would have already been told by now if there were a Mrs. Lecter or any perfect, legitimately begotten 2.5 kids waiting to meet him in Baltimore, but you never know.

There is a subtle pause, one that doesn’t feel weighted by any nasty surprises, but solemnly thoughtful nonetheless. Guiltily, Will realizes he may have stumbled right back into the same sensitive territory where the sister who never grew up still reigns, an aunt who must have died decades before Will was even born.

“You have a great-aunt who still lives in Paris, a woman I admired greatly when I was younger, though I’m afraid we have not been on speaking terms for several years now. There is also Chiyoh, the woman who runs the Lecter estate at Vilnius now in my absence. Though she is not related to me by blood or marriage, she was also Aunt Murasaki’s ward when I met her. I cannot honestly say whether you will have the chance to meet either of them.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t bother to brush up on my French or learn any Lithuanian in case I have to change addresses again in the next few years?” He’s not sure where this well of bitterness within him suddenly comes from, but this man must have the patience of a saint to take it so well in stride.

“One hopes that won’t be necessary,” he responds lightly, surprisingly cavalier about Will’s veiled mention of the possibility of his impending demise. “But in any case, I suspect Murasaki has no interest in taking in any more teenage orphans in her golden years, and Chiyoh knows as well as I that Lecter Castle is no place for children. Not anymore.”

“She lives in a castle? _Your_ castle?” Will wouldn’t say he squawks, but the pitch his voice reaches comes awfully close. Dr. Lecter seems terribly amused by it.

“Your castle too now, though as I said, it’s not an inheritance worth ever visiting. Its glory years are long behind it.” There’s obviously more to that he’s not saying, but Will’s done with pushing him deliberately for now. He has enough to wrap his head around as it is. _A castle._ What the fuck.

“You do live in a normal house in Baltimore, right?” The man smirks without saying anything. Will drops his head back against the seat and stifles a groan.

“Have you had much opportunity for travel, Will?” Will shakes his head.

“I mean, Dad and I moved a lot, going from state to state along the coast, but recreationally? Not really.” Dr. Lecter hums in response, fingers going briefly tighter around the steering wheel as he makes the next turn. “I think Mom used to amble more before she had me. We never left Virginia. She liked the way the seasons changed there.” Will’s voice goes quieter as he talks, until it’s barely there at all by the time he finishes. _There, not here._ They haven’t crossed the state border yet, but it already feels like the life he knew in Virginia is many miles away.

“Maryland also has a seasonal cycle that is similarly lovely, particularly when you get away from the urban sprawl once in a while to enjoy it.” They both lapse into comfortable silence for awhile after that. He isn’t sure if it’s because the psychiatrist next to him senses that Will needs it, or because he needs it himself. He has a feeling the man hasn’t openly talked this much about his past in a long time.

They stop once as they enter Maryland, to fill up on gas and take a moment to stretch their legs. Will leans against a concrete pillar to watch traffic go by while Dr. Lecter goes inside to pay. There’s a rest stop across the highway, a handful of picnic tables surrounded by the same species of trees that grew in the little park Will could see from his bedroom window at Eleanor’s apartment.

Same trees, same clouded sky. Same Will, for the most part. It’s not so different either, when he thinks about it, from the long trips he used to take with Levi, always going from one port town to the next, is it? No, not so different. There’s the telltale click of the pump, letting him know that the car’s all gassed up and ready to go. Here’s his father’s hand on his shoulder, rousing him from his woolgathering to let him know it’s time to get back on the road. “Do you need another moment?”

Will blinks, the question throwing him for a loop. Not _‘Do you need to go to the bathroom?’_ or _‘Do you want anything from the store?’_ or some other practical concern Levi would ask about before gently reminding him that they’re burning daylight. He isn’t prompted again as he ponders it in silence either, allowed to actually think rather than assumed not to have heard. Will shakes his head. They get back in the car and continue on to Baltimore, companionably quiet once again.

The house on Chandler Square is a sturdy, respectable old brownstone, bigger than any of the rented double-wides or cozy apartments he’s moved into before. There are going to be rules about how to “comport himself” in a house like this, he thinks, tucking his glasses away again, if the waxed and shined car clean enough inside and out not to leave a trace of dirt to be found even with a fine-toothed comb weren’t already clue enough.

The inside is elegant and strange. Dark. Sumptuous. He could probably come up with a few more adjectives, but all of them would basically add up to the same conclusion— _don’t touch, everything in here is insured for more than the car is._ He’s expected to _live_ in this house for the next three or so years? Everything about it suggests the tastes of a man comfortably settled into the lifestyle of a posh, childless bachelor.

How long will it take him to grow tired of the awkward and weird teenager he brought home and start looking for the gift receipt? Maybe Will can find an unfurnished corner out of the way somewhere to pose as a living statue like the ones he remembers seeing on Bourbon Street when he was little, make himself useful as something interesting for guests to look at like the art on the walls until they grow bored and move on, leaving him tucked away out of sight and out of mind again except for the fastidious, periodic sweep around his joints for dust and cobwebs.

_You’re being unfair._ Nothing in Dr. Lecter’s demeanor so far has suggested that the sudden addition to his household is unwelcome or troublesome at all, far from it in fact. Every time he feels eyes on him now comes with a prickling sense of awe as if the man can’t quite believe Will is real and has to check to make sure he’s still there, that he hasn’t evaporated into smoke and shadows. Will doesn’t know what to make of it honestly. That’s new to him.

He’s led upstairs to what must have been a guest room before, just as richly furnished as the rest of the house but somewhat lighter and airier, with dark carpeting but pale blue walls and a buttercream comforter on the bed. The boldest splash of color in the room is the framed, attached space above the vanity dresser. It clearly housed a heavy mirror before, the same length as the vanity itself and almost as tall, but that had been removed from the inset frame and replaced by black velvet lining that serves as the backdrop for dozens of species of butterflies pinned behind sheet glass. Will stands riveted by the sight of it long enough for Dr. Lecter to suggest that anything about the décor can be changed to suit Will’s liking.

“No, I…I like it.” He turns away from the faint impression of his own reflection on clear glass, distorted in half by the wing of a narrow banded bluebottle, to see that Dr. Lecter has set his bag down at the foot of the bed.

“Would you like some privacy while you unpack?” Will shrugs, uncaring one way or another. It’s not like he has anything to hide. “In that case, I can prepare us some light sandwiches as a late lunch and bring them up here. With your injury, it will go easier and quicker if you allow me to help.”

“Sure, thanks,” Will mumbles. Dr. Lecter leaves him alone to return downstairs, truly out of sight for the first time since they met this morning. The gas station doesn’t really count with its thick-paned windows that he could see Lecter paying at the counter through if he’d turned to look. He hadn’t, not wanting to know if the psychiatrist was looking out through the windows at him to make sure he didn’t walk out into traffic or something equally stupid like that, not wanting to let the man know that he felt a similar impulse to make sure he didn’t get mugged by a small-time robber looking to make a quick buck off the fancy-pants customer, or slip on a puddle of Wild Cherry slushie and crack the back of his skull open on the dirty linoleum tiles.

He struggles a bit to unzip the duffel on his own, wanting to at least get started before Lecter gets back. He awkwardly dumps it all out onto the bed and starts picking through the rumpled pile of clothing with one hand, setting things aside to be organized later as he goes. His wooden box and shoebox of games over here, CDs there, books stacked neatly atop one another at this corner, socks and undergarments sorted into a pile of their own, et cetera and so on.

The task should be simple. Mind-numbing. There’s so little here. So little that he probably won’t even need help except to put certain garments on hangers. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dr. Lecter makes some kind of comment about ironing his wrinkled shirts, but that’ll definitely have to wait until he’s allowed to start using his other arm more. They probably could have just put off lunch a little longer—not like it’ll take more than half an hour at most to put everything away. Like Will himself, it would be easy to just shunt it all into a closet somewhere and forget about it. Why did he dump it all out in the first place? Wouldn’t it have been easier just to leave it all in the bag anyway, packed and ready to go to the next port? He and Levi used to practically live out of cardboard boxes that never quite emptied, their contents never getting the chance to settle more permanently elsewhere in the house before going right back in. Should’ve kept the habit. Should’ve packed even less. Should’ve known it could never last. Should’ve, should’ve, _should’ve…_

He doesn’t know when his shoulders start to shake or his breathing starts to hitch. The bed is soft, he notices when he drops what he’s doing and allows himself to just sit for a minute. Just for a minute, really, that’s all he needs. It’s probably too soft for someone like him honestly. Lying in it will feel like floating on nothing. He doesn’t want to float; he wants to sink and never resurface. He’s not suicidal. He’d just like to not exist in his own head for awhile, is that too much to ask? And where is that awful noise coming from? It can’t be Will, he’s too far away, standing too close to the shoreline, salt and sea spray stinging his face and making his eyes water. It’s too cold.

The tray in his new father’s hands makes a soothing clatter as it’s set on the nightstand. The bed dips, oddly reassuring as the added weight doesn’t make it feel like he’s floating anymore. He’s pulled into an embrace that chases away the cold and his first instinct is to yelp in surprise like a dog yelps in pain. The arms around him do not let go. If anything, they tighten as if Will might try to pull away, careful of his shoulder. “It’s alright. I have you, darling.”

Will cries harder. He doesn’t think he’s the one who lays his head where the crook of Hannibal Lecter’s neck meets shoulder either, the hand gently nestled at the back of his head being the likelier culprit, but he honestly isn’t sure anymore. His hand that’s allowed to move freely has a tight grip on the man’s shirt. He must have taken his jacket off while downstairs.

When he’s recovered enough to be able to recognize his own voice, albeit thicker than normal, he tries to apologize. It’s the first time Dr. Lecter makes any kind of noise as if to shush him. “I-I’m sorry.” _Shhh…_ “I was…I don’t know. I just, I thought, I, I, _I wouldn’t ever have to do this again.”_ His voice is not his own again now. Surely even when he was little it had never reached this kind of wailing, high-pitched whine? His own pathetic behavior brings on a fresh wave of tears. The man’s shirt has to be ruined at this point. He doesn’t seem to care as he lays his cheek over the top of Will’s head and rubs soothingly up and down his back.

He doesn’t know how long they sit like that, with Will trying and failing to stop, to just catch his breath and breathe _normally_ again. He’s held through it all. He can’t remember the last time someone held him like this. He doesn’t want it to end.

Eventually Will runs out of the energy to keep going, his ugly sobs giving way to quieter sniffles. The handkerchief is produced again so Dr. Lecter can gently dab at his eyes, then clean up Will’s runny nose too like he’s some sort of _baby,_ but he’s too exhausted with himself at this point to even be as embarrassed about it as he should be. He does manage to crinkle his stopped-up nose a bit and huff something like a self-deprecating laugh, pulling a small smile from the other man. The handkerchief gets squirreled away again to god knows where. One arm is still wrapped around his torso with no intention of releasing him just yet.

Will’s chin is tipped upwards by a pair of gentle fingertips, so his eyes meet his father’s strange rust-colored ones for the first time. “Never apologize again for feeling, Will, nor for bestowing me the honor of allowing me to see you at your most vulnerable. Don’t try to hide it from me or go inside yourself to deal with it on your own. Be here, in the moment, and share it with me so we can face it together.” Will’s lip trembles even though he doesn’t have it in him to start crying again.

“Why does it matter to you? You don’t even know me yet.” He sounds hoarse to his own ears.

“I know enough to be certain I want nothing more in this world than to ensure your happiness here with me.” The open sincerity he sees in Hannibal’s expression is almost unnerving. “I wasn’t sure I would feel that way before I met you, that I would be capable of caring about someone else like that again,” he admits with more of that bald honesty. Will doesn’t know what to do with so much honesty in one day.

After awhile, he finally manages to untangle himself from the older man’s grip and return to the task at hand. He misses it immediately. Hannibal’s attention remains clearly focused on him even as he helps Will start putting things away in their proper place. That alone almost makes up for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone should tell poor baby Will he's thinking of the wrong fairy tale. :0 Speaking of, I don't know who else here is watching those Met streams I linked to, but that rendition of Bartók's _Bluebeard's Castle_ a few weeks back was just ~ mesmerizing ~ and it's far and away my favorite opera now. Of course, if you don't mind the audio quality of [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_O7bRQlYdI) requiring it be turned way up to hear anything or a lack of English subtitles, then have at it!


	8. Leda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Leda](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cGBYi0zkRI) by Stellamara.

Will awakes to warm kitchen smells and the homely clatter of someone bustling around downstairs. He turns over sleepily. His bedroom door is open.

He’d shut it last night, but it isn’t hard to imagine the doctor quietly rapping his knuckles on the door before opening it to check on him, then leaving it open intentionally so that breakfast preparations would eventually wake him. A gentler sort of morning alarm than he’s used to, but also a weirder one. He isn’t sure that he likes it. At least he’s wearing actual pajamas instead of just boxers, like he would if it were summer.

Hannibal throws a smile over his shoulder and greets him with a simple good morning, keeping most of his attention on whatever’s currently sizzling on the stovetop in front of him. It’s Will’s first time entering the kitchen, but he knows from one glance that this clean, open space is the heart of the house.

His mind had wandered through meals yesterday, tired and distracted, but even so he’d thought the chicken club sandwiches at lunch and pasta primavera for dinner had been uncommonly good and said so. He then learned that had been his father’s idea of taking it easy with meal preps after a long morning spent on the road, while also providing something “simple, comforting, and not too overwhelming” for Will’s first day in his new home. Whatever that meant. Most of what he ate in Levi’s household came out of a can or the river, and at Eleanor’s there was usually some form of leftover takeout. Homecooked meals typically meant grilled cheese sandwiches and ramen he’d learned how to make on his own when he was younger, or pancakes from a box mix if he was feeling fancy.

There are many appealing smells in the room, but the one that calls to him most right now comes from what he _thinks_ is some kind of complicated coffee machine. There are two glass mugs set aside next to the…kettle? That’s probably what the metal tub with the turn spout sticking out of its side is, right? He may not have a clue what the rest of the contraption is for, but he can at least manage turning a handle so coffee pours out.

After an experimental sip, he adds two heaping spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of cream to his cup before tasting again, absentmindedly sucking the excess from the spoon he mixed with. “How do you like it?” he asks, pouring into the second mug next.

“Just one sugar will suffice, thank you.” Will doesn’t see another spoon set aside for stirring and so, with a guilty glance at the man’s back, just uses the same one to stir Hannibal’s coffee as well. They’re related anyway, so it’s probably fine.

Last night, Will had sat at the dining table with his back to the fireplace, nearly as rapt at first with the living wall of herbs in front of him as he had been with the butterflies in his own room. This time he sits at the opposite side, observing the rest of the room more closely under natural light spilling in from the veranda doors. There are lots of horns, antlers, feathers, and…a painting. Will stares a little longer here, not sure his eyes are interpreting what he’s looking at correctly. He finally blinks when Hannibal’s arm comes into view to set his plate down.

Breakfast is a gorgeous arrangement of plump sausages and eggs fried in the center of thick slices of brioche. Will almost forgets his manners and barely stops himself in time from digging in before his father seats himself to Will’s right at the head of the table.

He makes an embarrassing noise around his first forkful of sausage, fat leaving a greasy shine on Will’s lip that he licks away. He’d thought the food yesterday was perfect but _this_ is on a whole other level.

His father is looking at him, gratified by Will’s obvious enjoyment. The teen bashfully averts his own gaze only to find himself looking up at that damn painting again. Who puts something like that in a dining room of all places?

“A sudden blow.” Will nearly jumps in his seat, almost as if his father’s voice is, to use his own words, a sudden blow to Will’s senses. His eyes return to the man who seemingly has not looked away from him once so far. “The great wings beating still above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed by the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill.” Will lowers his fork again slowly, careful not to let it clatter against porcelain as he listens. “He holds her helpless breast upon his breast. How can those terrified vague fingers push the feathered glory from her loosening thighs? And how can body, laid in that white rush, but feel the strange heart beating where it lies?”

Will becomes aware of the breath that has stilled in his own throat only when his father stops speaking. “Where is that from?” he asks softly.

“A poem by Yeats.” Hannibal takes a bite from his own portion, reminding Will to continue doing the same. “Do you know the story of Leda and the Swan, Will?” The boy’s eyes dart briefly back up to the painting, then return to his plate once again. He shakes his head.

“Leda was the queen of Sparta and wife to Tyndareus. Zeus was so taken with her beauty that one day he appeared before her in the form of a swan and seduced her, or raped her according to some accounts. Out of their union, Helen and Pollux were born, alongside Tyndareus’s children Castor and Clytemnestra, each set of twins hatching from separate eggs laid by their mother.”

Will’s fork breaks through his own egg, allowing sticky yolk to drip through the tines and soak into the brioche. While he savors his next bite, he imagines what it would be like to lay not one but _two_ eggs each the size of two human newborns. It sounds even messier and more painful that what he’s already heard about the usual methods of childbirth. “So which was it?” he asks. “Seduction or rape?”

“That depends on who’s telling the story.” Hannibal smiles at him over his coffee mug. “There’s a variety of books on the subject and many other Greek myths in my office. And a copy of Yeats as well, if you’re interested.”

Will looks up at Leda again, considering her, gaze focused on her face this time instead of the parts of her anatomy that had shocked him on first glance. He nods. “I’d like that, Dr. Lecter. Thank you.” He knows as soon as the words come out that in trying to be polite and deferential, he’s just screwed up royally. He doesn’t need to look to know that the warm smile has withdrawn, and acknowledges the loss with a guilty lump in his throat.

“Please, there’s no need to be so formal, is there?” That the man’s voice sounds unchanged and unbothered only cements further for Will how bothered he actually is. Were it truly alright, there would have been some amusement in his tone at Will’s little faux pas.

“I’m sorry,” he says, horrified by how tiny and cracked his own voice comes out. “I didn’t mean to. I just, um, don’t actually know what I should call you.”

“Hannibal would be a good start, if the alternative is too painful or uncomfortable to consider.” It’s immediately apparent here too that the “alternative” is definitely what he would prefer. _He wants what he should have had all along._ Suddenly it seems worse what his parents had done, a reminder that it wasn’t just Will who was affected by their decision to keep his origins a secret.

“Hannibal,” he tries, feeling the weight of it on his tongue. _Haaaannibal._ It’s still not what he really wants, but it appears to be enough to lift some of the dark fog Will had felt drift in between them, enough so that he says it again. “Hannibal. I-I’ll try. I’ll do better.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong to begin with, dear heart.” Will knows that’s not true, but it feels good to be forgiven so easily, so _tenderly_ even if he’s only made half the effort that he should to earn it. He will. He’ll try. He doesn’t think Levi would honestly mind, even if he hadn’t been gone for years. Plenty of kids with same-sex parents or stepparents say “Mom” or “Dad” interchangeably to mean more than one person all the time without issue anyway. He can do the same. He just needs time to work on it.

“Dessert should be cooled enough by now, if you’ve finished your plate,” Hannibal says a little while later, as if it isn’t perfectly obvious that Will has all but licked it clean by this point. He’d been contemplating whether or not to ask if there are seconds available, in fact.

“Dessert? Isn’t that more of an after-dinner thing?” Will stands to follow him into the kitchen, nothing but his empty coffee mug in hand since the man has already collected most of their dirty dishes before he even gets a chance to offer to help. He’ll just have to accept this sort of thing probably until his shoulder is fully healed.

“So it would have been, but I could see how tired you were at dinner. Turning in for the night early after such a long day seemed best.” That’s true enough. Will had showered after they ate, then stared at the butterflies from his new marshmallow bed for awhile. He isn’t sure exactly when he fell asleep, but he’d been wrung out enough from overload that he’s sure it wasn’t long after sliding underneath the covers.

“You made it last night but it still needed time to cool this morning?” he asks curiously.

“I allowed the dish to marinate overnight, then came down this morning and reduced the poaching liquid to a syrup before starting on breakfast, to be drizzled over the pears once it has reached room temperature,” Hannibal explains, doing just that after he plates the fruit on delicate-looking saucers. He looks up from his work when he hears the handle on the kettle turning again and the splash of coffee refilling Will’s cup. He clears his throat, prompting the teen to immediately turn it closed again with a surprised, guilty glance up. “Too much caffeine in the morning can be damaging in the long run to a still-growing boy.” It’s the first time he’s shown a hint of disapproval for anything Will has done.

The disappointment on Will’s face must be a sight to behold, for the man’s eyes soften and his lips curl up, wryly amused. “I suppose since we didn’t discuss it prior to now and appropriately temper your expectations beforehand, two cups is permissible. But only this once, Will.” Will sighs, already mourning future breakfasts with only a single lonely coffee to wash them down with, but he’d known there would be downsides to this living arrangement making themselves known sooner or later. He gratefully accepts Hannibal’s permission to make today the exception even as he turns over in his mind possibilities for how he could sneak extra refills later or even smuggle sodas into the house eventually.

Hannibal carries their plates and a freshened cup of his own into the study, blissfully unaware of the boy’s nefarious scheming. Will is curious why they would take dessert here instead of returning to the dining room. He guesses the doctor just wants to show off more of the house Will didn’t get around to seeing yesterday, and maybe has noticed how out of place Will feels here and wants to get him more comfortable treating it like a home instead of a museum.

“A harpsichord?” Will hastily sets his coffee down on the first coaster he can find so he can get a closer look. “That’s so cool! I’ve never seen one in person before.”

Hannibal sets everything down on a nearby coffee table and moves to stand next to him. “It would surprise me if there were many your age who could tell the difference between one and a piano at a glance, much less consider it ‘cool’ to own one.”

Will grins up at him. “Yeah, uh, sorry you had to find out this way, I guess, but turns out your long-lost kid is kind of a gigantic nerd.” He gives a rusty-sounding giggle as he glances back between the man and the gorgeous instrument in front of them. “Although considering you have stuff like this in your house, I’m betting you’re probably an even bigger one than me.”

He gets the sense that Hannibal’s answering laugh has less to do with Will’s teasing than delight in his enthusiasm. “Do you play any instruments yourself?”

“Mom was teaching me piano.” His smile dims a watt but isn’t extinguished entirely. “Is the harpsichord really different? Apart from just the sound, I mean.”

“Transitioning between them can be a challenge to learn as each requires a different sort of handling. In a piano, the hammer strikes the strings, but in a harpsichord the strings are plucked. It requires a consistent level of force applied primarily by the fingers with less movement of the wrists or arms than you may be used to.” Will taps one of the keys experimentally. The sound reverberates harshly around them and he imagines he can feel the difference in how it responds to his touch that Hannibal described.

“You play both?” He glances around the room almost as if he expects to find a piano tucked away in a corner somewhere. As if something like that wouldn’t be showcased on display in this house.

“Occasionally, though I don’t keep a piano on this property. Would you like to learn?” his father asks, gesturing to the harpsichord. Will hums, thinking about it rather than just blurting an answer on a whim.

“Maybe, when I can use both arms again.” He doesn’t think his own play style would really suit it, but he’s adaptable enough to at least try it out.

They sit on the couch to eat, so Will is extra careful about making sure he doesn’t accidentally drip syrup anywhere. _Wine-poached pears._ His mouth purses in irony even as he licks his lips clean. “I’m not allowed too much coffee in a day, but you’ll let me have alcohol?” He follows this up with a pointed sip from his glass mug.

“Most of the alcohol is cooked out in the poaching process,” the man informs him primly. His eyes cut sardonically to the boy who fails to hide his snort. “Finish your breakfast, Will.”

His _breakfast._ Will has a hard time chasing away a silly smile at being scolded into finishing his spiked dessert at half past nine in the morning. Maybe his father underestimated how much he would be affected even with _most_ of the alcohol supposedly evaporated. Maybe Will is just happy, in spite of the fact that he’s far from being okay yet. Well-fed, well cared for, and surprisingly, effulgently, _brilliantly_ happy, if only in this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Leda and the Swan](https://poets.org/poem/leda-and-swan) by W.B. Yeats.
> 
> Hmm, I wonder if the man who put one coffee spoon out for two coffee mugs noticed Will using the same spoon that he'd licked clean to stir both drinks? How curious that he wouldn't say anything about such crass behavior. 🤔


	9. On Naming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Winter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPdk5GaIDjo) from Antonio Vivaldi's Four Seasons. Did you guys know there are "lyrics" to go with the Four Seasons? Cuz I sure didn't. TIL by turning on the audio captions! :0

The boy’s posterior deltoid shifts beneath his open palm as he stretches, breathing in and out, steady as a metronome in time with Hannibal’s voice as he counts down the seconds in a quiet hush behind him, reining in the impulse to lean close enough to nose at his curls and say them directly against his ear. Will would likely jump, which would be counterproductive to their efforts. At the final number, Will exhales and lowers the arm stretched out lengthwise across his chest, allowing both shoulders to fall even and lax. Hannibal allows his fingers to curl, lightly and rounded, an encouraging squeeze to the boy’s shoulder without the pressure, before pulling his hand away in a barely-there glide down Will’s cotton T-shirt.

His hands-on approach to guiding his son through these exercises is not, _strictly speaking,_ necessary, as Will had pointed out himself on the first day, giving weak protest that Hannibal surely had better things to be doing with his time, protest which had died on his tongue when Hannibal had countered that nothing else worth doing could possibly be more important than this.

“Guided assistance may help to shape it into a meditative practice for you, rather than it feeling like a chore,” he’d also explained, and it has certainly achieved that as well. The protesting has not returned since that first instance, and he can tell he is not the only one who looks forward to these quiet, reflective moments together. Will is still not wholly accustomed to tactile affection just yet, but Hannibal has found he is able to touch more freely without triggering a surprised or confused reaction in the hours following physical therapy, and in the long term it is acclimatizing his boy more and more to his touch outside of their sessions too.

“Do you think I could leave the sling off a little longer today?” Will asks, sitting on the sofa and taking a sip of water while Hannibal considers the question. It has been a little over two and a half weeks, barely the minimal amount of recovery time expected for such an injury, but Will is young and able-bodied and has been obediently proactive about his therapy routines and treatment.

“Maybe for a few hours at least,” he decides, taking the seat beside him. “If you’re careful not to overextend yourself and tell me immediately if you feel any unusual soreness.”

“Good, I _hate_ that thing. Can’t wait til I don’t need it at all anymore and can just shove it into the back of a drawer somewhere and forget about it.”

“With luck and a little perseverance, that day may come as early as Christmas.” Will stills. They have not discussed the upcoming holiday amid everything else, getting used to each other’s constant presence and settling into a routine together. He sets his glass back on the coaster.

“I wasn’t sure if you celebrated it or not,” he says in that softspoken, careful way that Hannibal has learned usually means he’s trying to assess whether or not there may be something important concerning whatever topic they’re discussing that he’s missed. The boy has such a natural talent for psychoanalysis that Hannibal is thinking of introducing him to some formal training and basic principles on the subject when it is time to resume his studies in January.

“I haven’t done so in earnest in many years,” he says, rewarding Will’s observation with transparency. “I observe it socially, exchanging the usual pleasantries and greetings, sending out cards, handing out small gifts to colleagues and friendly acquaintances, but while others are allowed to assume this means I celebrate it as they do, I am aware that for myself these are shallow niceties and nothing more.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Will grimaces.

“Our tree will be here on the seventeenth. I typically wait a day or two before company is due to arrive to set it up, about a week before the actual date when most will be either traveling or spending the day cloistered at home with their families.”

“You have people over,” his son says flatly. “For a holiday you don’t even care about.”

“I’ve been reliably informed it’s considered _the_ event of the season,” Hannibal tells him, hushed, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he leans closer. Will looks delightfully aghast at this news. “Many of the guests look forward to it more than visiting their own relatives, I’m told. Unfortunate for them that it shall have to be canceled this year.”

“What? Why?” Will asks, an adorable blend of horrified and relieved while Hannibal merely holds his gaze with a smile, waiting for him to piece together the obvious. As expected, he’s quick to pick up on it, turning to more fully face his father. “You don’t have to do that, Hannibal. Really, it’s fine! I can…I’ll just hang out upstairs with a book or something til it’s over. It’s not a big deal.”

“Will.” Has there ever been a sweeter name to murmur in all of human existence? He takes gentle hold of his son by the arms, just above his elbows. “I don’t want you to be anxious and hide away from our guests, darling. It’s important to me that you be there. That’s why I’ve chosen not to host any more dinner parties until you’re comfortable enough with attending.” That, and he can admit to himself that he’s not quite ready to share his boy’s company with anyone else just yet.

Will looks down at his own lap and makes a discontented noise. Hannibal squeezes his arms lightly, just enough to make him look back up and prompt him to say what he’s thinking. “What if I can’t? Get comfortable with it? I don’t…I don’t _like_ people, Hannibal. They’re too…too—” He bites his own words off, humming in frustration.

“You get overwhelmed easily in a crowd,” Hannibal surmises. The boy nods rapidly. “Too many voices, too many eyes. Too much to see and comprehend.” Will’s eyes widen. It must be as rare for him to feel seen as it is for him to be able to avoid looking.

“Mom was the same, I think. Kind of,” Will confesses, biting down on his bottom lip. Hannibal gently rolls it back from his teeth with his thumb before pulling his hand away, encircling it loosely around the boy’s wrist and rubbing encouragingly there with the same thumb. Will glances to it before darting his gaze back up. “We never talked about it, but I knew. Same, yet different. She got lost in people and she liked it that way.” He pulls a face. “No, not _liked,_ but…but it was easier than living,” he finishes on a soft whisper. His lip is plumper and redder than normal from its earlier treatment.

“That will not happen to you,” Hannibal promises. Will’s expression doesn’t change, but he knows that he has the boy’s full attention now. “What you need is a fixed point to bring you back to yourself when you feel adrift. An anchor to focus on who Will Graham is.”

“How do I do that?”

“The same as with any other skill. With practice.” Hannibal rises from the sofa, offering his hands for Will to take to draw him up as well, enjoying how closely they stand—Will would only have to lean forward ever so slightly and hardly tilt his head at all to rest it against his father’s shoulder—before respectfully stepping back. One more growth spurt over the next few years and this gangly-limbed creature is likely to reach his own height or nearly so. Perhaps taller, though it is less likely unless Eleanor’s gene pool also had members of above-average height. He is looking forward to watching how time will further enhance his already exceptional boy into a beautiful young man in his prime.

“Why are we still getting a tree if there’s no party this year?” Will asks, returning to their earlier topic as they move from the study to his home office. Another delightful benefit of the physical therapy sessions—Will is slower after them to find something else to preoccupy himself with alone and more prone to following his father throughout the house like an imprinted duckling, unconsciously desiring to maintain that closeness for some time afterwards. Ardelia Mapp had implied that the teen greatly valued solitude above socializing, but while it is certainly true that at times Will would rather retreat to his own room than continue to engage in another lengthy discussion with him, Hannibal has since come to conclude that the habit is one borne out of necessity as a means of self-preservation for a deeply empathic mind and not actually indicative of a true preference.

“I suddenly find myself in a genuinely festive mood this December.” Judging by Will’s non-reaction to that statement, he may be the only one. This is not surprising. “If it’s too soon for you, however…” Will shakes his head before he’s even finished the sentence. Such a stubborn little thing, so determined not to cause “trouble” in his new home life that his greatest act of rebellion so far has been in his mysteriously long-lasting cup of coffee each morning, always the same shade and height within the glass that it had been before he devised some pretense to leave the room and sneak back into the kitchen, but distinctly fresher in scent even if the clever young thing also makes sure to add an ice cube so it doesn’t steam.

As long as he moderates himself and doesn’t cross the threshold into too many “secret” refills, Hannibal is content to keep making a little bit more each morning than is actually needed and pretending he doesn’t notice how low the level of brew in the kettle continues to drop before he pours his own final cup. A bit of carefully monitored teenage rebellion is to be encouraged as a healthy and natural facet of adolescent development. If he has also taken to grinding a blend of his usual beans with decaf ones, well, the sacrifice doesn’t trouble him much, and not _knowing_ that it’s lower in caffeine allows it to have somewhat of a placebo effect on Will’s own chemical dependence.

“In either case, I must send out letters today notifying all invitees of the cancellation,” he says, going to his L-shaped desk at the farthest end of the room. On the section flush against the wall is the office telephone, desktop computer, and 56K modem, while spread across the writing surface perpendicular to it is his stationary and a stack of envelopes set out beside a handwritten guest list, a roll of stamps, and his address book.

“Um, can I help?” Will asks, shuffling awkwardly in place and discomfited by the apparent ease with which Hannibal appears to have dropped the subject. In truth, he’d hoped such an offer would be made as it may be easier for the boy to talk about it with his hands and mind partially occupied elsewhere. He pulls another chair closer to face opposite his own in front of the desk and instructs Will to stamp and label the envelopes with the appropriate addresses while he writes. Will smiles in shining gratitude at actually being tasked to do something for once.

They work in companionable silence initially, the only sounds in the room being the scratch of their pens and occasional rustle of pages as Will flips through the address book. After a few minutes pass, Hannibal speaks without looking up from what he’s doing, knowing it could be helpful if Will doesn’t feel his gaze on him for the moment. “What would you and your mother be doing for Christmas if you were still celebrating it with her this year?” Will’s pen stops scratching for a few seconds. An indrawn breath through his nose. Then the pen resumes.

“She’d probably have a few bookings with different churches around the area, which she’d invite me to go along with her for but I, I wouldn’t. She’d know that but still give me the option anyway.” His voice is steady with a sort of practiced monotone. “Come home with tupperware full of these little portions of potluck stuff they’d insist on giving her—cookies, slopped spoonfuls of casseroles, macaroni salad, that kind of thing. This one Lutheran congregation gave her a whole bottle of sacramental wine once but, uh, I think that might have been a mistake.” Hannibal can think up a dozen comments to make here ranging from witty to biting and philosophical, but he holds his tongue. This is not the time for it. “We’d eat in front of the TV, watching animated specials like The Grinch and Charlie Brown. Then presents and…that’s about it really.” The boy projects an attitude of nonchalance. “It was nice. Probably doesn’t sound like much to you though, huh?”

“Was it very different from the traditions your stepfather upheld with you?”

“Was it very different from the traditions _your_ parents upheld?” Hannibal looks up to find his son’s eyes blazing at him. There is a sharpness to the look, those mercurial irises shaded less now the grey-blue of a brooding, clouded squall on the horizon than a murky sea-green of choppy, churning, cold waters. After days of nothing but shyness, smiles, and bouts of still pensiveness which, alas, have not brought with them more silver-sweet tears since that first day, he is finally getting a small taste of what his boy is like in ill temper.

The temptation is there to see how much further he can take it, how brightly the boy’s anger will flare under the right provocation, but this is not the purpose of his current line of questioning. It would not be in the spirit of the season, as they say. Another time then perhaps.

“In my homeland, Christmas Eve holds more significance than Christmas Day. We call it Kūčios. Traditionally, a deep cleaning of the entire house is done on that day, but your grandmother liked to get an early start. Our estate was so large, it would take her and a small army of servants a week to get through it all.” He gives a small nostalgic smile, watching the boy’s defensiveness melt away as he speaks. He hadn’t expected Hannibal to answer him first. “It’s the only part of the Kūčios tradition I’ve kept up with over the years. There are many other aspects of it I no longer follow—the fasting, the meatless supper, the breaking of the plotkelės, or Nativity wafers.” He lightly swallows. “Spreading straw under the tablecloth, then pulling them out blindly to tell each other our futures. Setting empty plates out on the table for every member of the family no longer with us.”

It’s quite easy to guess the direction of Will’s thoughts now as he stills again. “I don’t…I don’t think I, I’d be comfortable with that.” He doesn’t clarify beyond this point, nor does he need to for Hannibal to be certain it’s not the vegetarian menu or most of the traditional games and rituals he’s addressing.

“We’ll skip it,” Hannibal reassures him. He does not say that there is no room for Eleanor or Levi Graham at his table, even in the metaphorical sense, or that their change in circumstances has not made him any more comfortable himself with the thought of setting out a lonely little candle on a far too clean white plate for Mischa in any case. _An empty plate for a starving girl._ No. He would sooner smash every fine piece of china in his cabinets all at once than force himself to break bread beside ugly reminders of past failings and injustices. “I have no intention of taking up old habits I discarded long ago. I would much rather you and I forge our own new traditions together.”

Will taps his fingertips along the desk’s mahogany surface in a jangled, arrhythmic pattern. “Dad didn’t want to sit through cartoons once I got old enough to not care much about them either,” he finally says. “His movies of choice were _A Christmas Story_ and _It’s A Wonderful Life_.” He snorts. “And he _always_ had to cut down our tree himself, insisted on it even if it meant sneaking onto someone else’s property with a hatchet and saw. It’s amazing that we never got caught actually.” Will stares down at a patch of empty space between their respective stacks of work, wearing a faraway smile that Hannibal thinks may not be as dissimilar from his own as he once thought, or perhaps he’s simply adopted the one Hannibal wore earlier as they trade memories. “Mom had a contact allergy to pine needles though, so hers was tinsel. Pre-lit, so at least we never had to agonize over untangling spools of string lights each year.”

“I’m fond of spruces personally, though I should ask now if it’s an allergy you share.” Will shakes his head. “Good. I enjoy their smell, although it can be a bit overpowering when the tree is still freshly cut,” he says, taking up his fountain pen once more. The boy nods agreeably to this, thoughts still elsewhere.

“Uh, sorry but also _not_ sorry, by the way.” Thinking Will means his brief display of ire from earlier, he is about to tell the boy to think nothing of it before Will continues. “I know you don’t like hearing me call him that. I get why. And…I guess you kind of have a right to be annoyed about it, but…just ’cause I get it doesn’t mean I’m going to stop. I just think you should know that.”

Hannibal sets the pen down once again. “I would never ask that of you, Will.” Truthfully, he thought he’d hidden his distaste better than that. He’ll need to make a greater effort to avoid trip-wiring the boy’s remarkable insight and risk fostering some resentment between them over the issue. “I hope you understand I don’t seek to replace either of them.”

Personally, he believes it is quite generous of him to make no fuss over _his_ son continuing to bear another’s surname. As much as it would please him to gift his son with his own family name, he recognizes that it would pain the boy deeply to let go of this last connection to the man who raised him for so many years. The cost of keeping the name Graham is a pittance for holding Will’s trust by not harboring undue jealousy over a dead drunkard.

Let him have the boy’s name. It is enough that Hannibal gets to have Will himself and not share him with anyone else. He also has hope that his son will one day grant him the title that should always have been his by right. When Will is ready, he will.

“You know everyone’s gonna be able to tell you didn’t label these, right?” the teenager points out, awkwardly changing the subject. He holds one of the envelopes up in his right hand while gazing upside down at the final letter Hannibal is working on, noting the obvious differences in handwriting.

“Let them wonder about it. It’ll give them something to gossip over and make up for their disappointment in entertainment value.” Will gives a vaguely nervous-sounding chuckle. “They’ll learn the truth in due time, but our changed circumstances are not the sort of information one discloses in such an impersonal medium.”

“You call writing an individualized letter _by hand_ to every person you invited to this thing impersonal? Makes me wonder what _personal_ actually looks like for you then.”

“That’s for you to discover and no one else,” Hannibal tells him. Will’s brows knit together in confusion at that statement. Then his face clears and brightens, pleased by the honor being bestowed.

“Ok, um… _ditto.”_ The two of them share a secretive smile, as if they’ve promised to share what no one else could possibly hope to understand. That is certainly Hannibal’s intent. No one else has ever been granted the privilege of truly knowing and seeing him. No one else would know how even if he were willing to let them. Will is the one who will scale what remains of his walls—already he has dismantled some of them with little context to recognize how much further he’s already come than most.

He’ll see to it as well that Will realizes no one else will ever know or understand him as Hannibal does either, that no one exists who could possibly adore him as wholly and unreservedly as his loving father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess next week we're having Christmas in July, folks. Will won't be getting a puppy just yet, sorry. Y'all know Hannibal's gotta wait til they have their first fight or something to pull out a showstopping move like that. xD


	10. Comfort and Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [What Child is This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HFifQZls33c) (aka Greensleeves), as played by Taryn Harbridge.

The tree arrives on a Wednesday, carried in by a team of workers, so much bigger than he could have imagined. It makes Will think of a picture he’d seen once in a social studies textbook of a tree being decorated by people on ladders inside the White House, though of course it’s not _that_ tall. The ceilings here aren’t high enough for that.

Dr. Lecter—for in front of these strangers, mannerly as ever but unflinchingly particular in his demands and absent the familiar warmth Will has grown accustomed to, he can’t possibly think of him right now as _Hannibal_ —gives crisp, precise instruction on exactly where it should go in the rarely used den. With the gracious help of the delivery team, who must be getting tipped _very_ well indeed, he has the furniture rearranged to give it space to stand without limiting walking room.

Will is _not_ allowed to help, too much heavy lifting while he’s still technically in recovery having been deemed “unwise,” and gets the distinct sense that he would be considered underfoot if he sticks around. Instead, he lounges on the divan in Hannibal’s office, feeling weirdly put out as he listens to his father’s voice directing the workers through the door he left slightly ajar, and plays _Link’s Awakening_ to keep distracted and out of the way.

He doesn’t get why the doctor would choose the den over the study where they frequently spend time together in the first place. It has the fireplace and wide open space at one side of the room already without moving anything around. It could have made sense in Decembers past when the tree would be more in the way there, where party guests were likelier to mill around, he supposes, but that also seems to kind of defeat the purpose of ordering a singular large decorative piece _for_ said party just to put it somewhere else then. The only advantage to the den is that it’s the only room Will has seen with a television set, but he doubts Lecter wants to sit cozy under twinkling lights to watch Ralphie’s mom admonish for the hundredth time that the kid will shoot his eye out if they get him a Red Ryder. He’s not sure whether the man would even know what a Red Ryder is.

The door to the office slowly opens all the way, revealing his father leaning halfway into the room, one hand on the knob while the other curls casually around the doorframe. “There you are,” he says, exuding that congenial warmth that Will is starting to realize really might be just for him. The delivery people must be gone now.

“Hi,” he answers, voice small. Will averts his eyes back to the screen in front of him, continuing to delve deeper into the dungeon he just entered. _Rude,_ he chastises himself, not sure why he seems to be in a mood to punish the man, which is all the more reason why he _shouldn’t_.

Hannibal comes in and moves to stand beside him, using his hand on the head rest to lean where he can look over the boy’s shoulder without affecting the lighting in a way that blocks Will’s own view of the screen. If he’s annoyed by the teen’s blasé attitude, he hides it well. “What is the objective you’re trying to achieve?”

“Uhh.” Will uses a fight with a group of skeletons as a stalling tactic, once again thrown off by the way his father asks questions that most adults wouldn’t. No simple _‘What are you playing?’_ to be answered with a name that would be meaningless to the asker anyway or a _‘What’s the point of this game?’_ that might come across as patronizing or judgmental, as if Will’s wasting his time on it. “I have to find these sacred instruments so I can play a song for, um, well basically, the god of this world.”

Hannibal hums interestedly. “A tale of adventure that doesn’t sound so out of place with the ones you’ve been reading,” he says, referencing the books on ancient mythology Will has been borrowing.

Will throws a quick glance in his direction to give a sardonic smile. “I don’t know about that. It’s still pretty childish to be honest, but it’s kind of the only game I have with any real story to it.”

“You’d prefer something a bit more mature in presentation?” Will shrugs.

“Maybe sometimes, but there’s not a ton of options out there.” He’ll find that out quick if he’s fishing for ideas on a game to get Will for Christmas. Thinking that’s probably the case, he feels more like an ass now for trying to ignore the man a second ago.

At least Hannibal _has_ ideas. Will hasn’t got a clue what he can do for the man who already has everything, especially when he has no means currently of traversing the city on his own to go shopping anyway. And what’s he supposed to do if the opportunity does come up, ask to borrow some cash so he can buy the doctor a gift with his own money?

Fingers card through his hair in a soothing gesture, which is how Will realizes he’s been scowling. He sighs and decides to just save where he’s at once he’s cleared this room of enemies, shutting the device off afterwards and allowing it to thump uselessly against his chest. The fingers remain but are still now as he leans back and twists his head a little to look up at Hannibal, the motion causing them to run pleasantly over his scalp. He’s reminded of a cat rubbing up against its owner’s leg and snorts softly.

He sees the question forming under slightly raised eyebrows and beats his father to the punch by answering before he can verbalize it. “I’m stuck on what I should get you. Or how. And _don’t_ say my company is enough or I’m running away from home to join the circus.”

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle with his smile, his fingertips scratching lightly where they flex and tangle more into his unruly locks. “You would scorn me for telling the truth by denying me the one gift I would ask for?” Will doesn’t bother to hide his eye roll or teasing smirk. He’s getting used to his father’s understated flare for the dramatic.

“Come on, there has to be _something_ I can actually do for you.”

“Hm, how’s this? Your gift to me can be your assistance with all the cleaning that needs to be done on Christmas Eve.” Well _duh,_ it’s not like he was planning to hole up in his room all day playing games like some entitled jerk while his father swept and vacuumed the whole house by himself. He’d already assumed he’d be helping. _Although_ …now that he thinks about it, there may be something more to that idea he can work with. He hums in something like acquiescence, not quite satisfied his idea is enough but glad he at least has somewhere to go with it, which is more than he had a minute ago.

The fingers pull away from his curls finally as Hannibal holds his other hand out expectantly. Will wonders if he’s in some kind of trouble after all as he passes the Game Boy over, but Hannibal simply turns away to set it down on the desk, taking care to adjust its placement so it’s aligned perfectly at the corner and precisely an inch from the edge on both sides. Will smiles at the man’s fussiness. It’s a quirk that others might find annoying, but not him. Oddly enough, the perfectionism serves as an endearing reminder of his father’s imperfection and humanity.

“Would you care to help me decorate the tree?” Will nods and rejoins him in the den.

The string lights are a plain soft white and wrapped around a plastic cord reel so there’s no hassle of having to untangle them first. Up next goes a wide shimmery ribbon, the color a deep burgundy red. From there, his father’s peculiar style starts to stray from the tastefully simple to something a little more… _outlandish_. Will nearly balks when Hannibal brings out actual _peacock feathers_ to tuck into the tree’s branches, but that’s nothing compared to the mini heart attack he suffers when he sees the collection of delicate glass baubles nestled in tissue paper-lined boxes labeled Tiffany & Co. To top it all off, quite literally, is a Swarovski crystal star that gets mounted atop the highest branch.

“For Chrissake, what do you do if somebody gets a little too tipsy at your parties and bumps into it?”

“Buy new ornaments.” Will gets an odd look from the man when he makes a tiny sound in his throat that sounds an awful lot like a squeak, but he can’t help it. “And pare down the guest list for next year,” Hannibal adds with a sharp smile. “That alone is typically enough incentive for people to take care around the tree. I have had to replace very few ornaments over the years.”

All Will can think as they carefully finish decorating is that if he somehow manages to drop one, despite how hyper-aware he is of his hands and every other square inch of his body that risks coming into contact with the spruce’s branches each time he has to step closer, it’ll be the second time his father sees him cry. He’s never had so much anxiety hanging colorful bulbs on a tree in his life.

But he has to admit, when the curtains are drawn shut and the overhead light is dimmed, it is stunningly beautiful to look at. Hannibal puts an arm around him and Will leans into the touch, feeling curiously proud of what they’ve put together even though his father must have done it by himself many times throughout the years before they met.

*

Hannibal is quickly brought to alertness when he awakes on the morning of the twenty-fourth, well-attuned enough to his own home to recognize that something is amiss. He dresses quickly. The tensed set of his shoulders relaxes when he opens his bedroom door and is greeted by the faint sounds and smells of someone cooking in his kitchen. A quick peek into Will’s room confirms that the source of this anomaly is not an unusually bold intruder.

“Good morning,” he says to his son’s back, enjoying the immediate startle effect this has while also glad it elicits only the smallest jerk of Will’s limbs, not enough for the boy to accidentally burn himself. Although that wouldn’t be the greatest misfortune if he had, only one that gives an excuse to comfort and soothe the agitated skin with some ointment from the medicine cabinet.

“Geez, I didn’t hear you come in,” Will says without looking away from the pan in front of him. “Um, hi. Good morning, I mean. Merry Christmas,” he adds with a vague flourish of his hand, gesturing over the stovetop and plates set out beside it.

“Is this to be part of my present?” he asks, coming closer to survey the state of his kitchen. Not as fastidiously neat as he would be, but not a mess either. Batter drips down the side of the bowl Will has been pouring into the pan from, but he’s set paper towels under it so it doesn’t end up on the countertop. The ingredients he used to mix it seem to have already been put away in their proper places again as well. He wonders idly if this has always been Will’s habit or if he learned to clean up after himself as he goes from observing Hannibal in the kitchen.

“Yeah, I hope that’s ok.” Hannibal feels eyes on him briefly, but they dart just as rapidly away before he turns his head back to try to catch them with his own. “They seem to taste alright at least. I’ve never tried to make them from scratch before.” There are four plates set aside, one empty but lined with another layer of paper towels, two with steadily growing shortstacks of golden brown pancakes on top, and one stack of “discards” that apparently didn’t meet satisfactory standards, whether too thin, too burnt, or too misshapen. The one on top is the latter kind and appears to be missing a bite from it.

He smiles, utterly charmed by the amount of effort his son has gone to and wholly endeared by the idiosyncrasies that would be vulgar from anyone else, like when Will unthinkingly licks up a drop of batter from the knuckle of his thumb, then crinkles his nose mildly in disgust the moment he catches himself doing it. Hannibal pretends not to have been looking when the boy throws him another fleeting glance a second later, and begins busying himself with the ritual of making coffee which he has made a point not to teach Will just yet.

Although distracted at the stove, Will being in the room means he has to forgo mixing in decaf grounds this time. He’ll make today another “exception day” in light of the occasion by explicitly allowing Will two cups, thus hopefully mollifying him into not sneaking more beyond that. He expects the boy will still experience a minor energy crash in a few hours since his body isn’t used to taking in so much caffeine anymore, and wonders how offended the teen would be by Hannibal’s “babying” if he suggests an early afternoon nap when it happens. Maybe if they both take one he won’t put up such a fuss.

He finishes in time to watch Will flip the last pancake with a spatula, not confident enough yet in his skills to do so using just the pan to toss it in the air and catch it. He turns the bacon sizzling in the other pan with a fork.

Hannibal had deliberately given no outward reaction to the meat, but allows his eyes now to briefly shut as he takes in the rich, fatty aroma. Will’s gift holds more significance than he knows. As much of a unique joy as it has become to be able to nourish his own young with the spoils of his hunts, to have his child take the initiative to feed _him_ from those very same kills is almost as sublime as he knows it would be if Will had been butcher as well as chef. It doesn’t matter that Will currently lacks his level of talent and experience in the kitchen. He will gladly eat whatever this boy puts before him no matter the taste.

“Maple syrup or clotted cream?” he asks as Will lays the strips out along the paper-lined plate’s surface to drain the grease.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had clotted cream before.” Will blinks. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve had real maple syrup either though. I’m guessing there’s a difference between what you’re talking about and the stuff they serve at IHOP.”

“Quite a large one,” Hannibal agrees, removing both items from the refrigerator. Normally he would have allowed the syrup time to come to room temperature, but this occasion marks one of the rare acceptable uses for the microwave oven he keeps on hand just in case. The clotted cream he had made intending to use it for scones this morning, but there should be plenty left over to go with tomorrow’s breakfast as well.

At the table, Will lightly douses only one rounded corner of his shortstack with the syrup before also trying the cream spread atop, which he ultimately seems to prefer. He does, however, with a boyish, sparkling glance at his father as if daring him to voice disapproval, pour a small experimental amount of the syrup into his coffee afterwards too. The boy is piquantly thrilled when instead Hannibal follows his example, remarking as he stirs the cup again that it is not uncommon for Vermonters and Canadians to use maple syrup in place of sugar entirely in their own coffee and tea.

He can feel his son’s gaze on him again, and takes visible pleasure in the first bite, which dissipates some of the nervous energy in the room. “This is excellent, Will. Thank you.”

“Really?” the boy asks shyly. “You’re not just saying that to boost my ego?”

“Do I strike you as an empty flatterer?” Will smiles down at his own plate, too embarrassed to look back up, and bites into a slice of bacon rather than answer. Hannibal is as hungry for the sweet faint flush that blooms over those pretty pale cheeks and swan-like neck as he is for the food. The pancake at the bottom is noticeably cooler than the one on top, due to gaps in time between when each was cooked, and some of the bacon slices are crispier than others, but these are minor amateurish mistakes which have not tarnished the overall flavor profile or presentation. He detects notes of vanilla and cinnamon in the pancakes, which further proves Will’s dedication to going beyond the minimum to make something that would be well received. His praise is genuine, and no one is more pleased by this fact than he, not even the squirming boy who appears not to know what to do with the compliment other than keep eating without seeking any more conversation for the time being.

After the dishes are washed, Hannibal sets Will to the relatively simple task of laundry, starting with bedsheets, blankets, and towels. Later on, he tells him, he will walk him through the process of sorting through specialty garments to determine which cycles to use and how to tell which are dry-clean only. It is the first time Will sees the inside of his own bedroom, and he halts with arms full of empty pillowcases to stare in awe at the set of samurai armor standing sentry against the wall.

He makes sure they pause more frequently for rest breaks between rounds of dusting, sweeping, and so on than he would normally take on his own, wanting to avoid overtaxing Will’s shoulder muscles and risk setting back his recovery. Truthfully, he keeps the house in such meticulous order year-round that there is less to be done in this annual tradition than one would expect, and he is quite pleased when, with help, the work is completed by noon, save for a final load of clothing that must be loaded into the dryer once the wash cycle ends. They each shower only to re-dress in warm, freshly dried pajama pants and shirts. He successfully convinces Will to pull on one of his own soft sweaters over his shirt, pleased by the way it hangs off him long enough for the sleeves to need to be rolled back and its red hue complements his skin still flushed pink from the warmth of the shower.

There is no need to convince him of that nap, for not long after they both settle onto the loveseat in the den with a fruit and cheese platter, feet propped up on the long ottoman together, the boy’s head finds his shoulder as he falls into a light doze right where they’re sitting. Hannibal sets the half-eaten platter back onto the side table and adjusts them carefully so he can hook one arm around his son without dislodging him from making use of his father as a pillow. The boy snuffles and presses his cold nose against Hannibal’s neck, but afterwards does not stir. He lays his cheek atop the crown of Will’s head and sighs blissfully.

*

A quiet thump brings Will back to consciousness. He’s all twisted up and curled into his father’s side—the thump was his own socked foot sliding off of the ottoman. Embarrassed, Will straightens and scoots back to his end of the seat. His father stretches and rolls his shoulders back, hair mussed, eyes a bit glassy as he blinks. Will forgets some of his embarrassment enough to smile because it’s so…so _cute,_ which he’s fairly certain he’s never thought about anyone at least twenty years his senior before.

He yawns, body catching up with his already active brain to remind him that Hannibal is not the only one just waking up. A glance to the grandfather clock standing in the corner tells him they both must have slept for just under two hours. This is much, much nicer than flipping through channels boredly and waiting until his parent comes home from a long shift at work to celebrate, whether that be gigs at a spate of churches or hauling at the boatyards. He feels a bit guilty for thinking that, but it’s no less true.

“Will you check on the laundry for me, darling?” Hannibal asks, accent a bit thickened. He stands and picks up the fruit tray to clean up. “Then meet me upstairs in your room.”

Will finds this set of instructions a bit strange, but gets up to do as he’s told.

When he gets to his room, Hannibal is more awake than before and already waiting for him. So is a small pile of brightly wrapped presents laid out on his bed.

“Uh, we’re doing this now?” _And up here instead of under the tree?_ he wonders, inexplicably nervous as he eyes the boxes laid out innocuously on his stripped-down mattress.

“Just these three,” his father says. “The rest will have to wait until tomorrow.” Will’s eyes go round. _The rest?_ Just how much stuff did this man buy for Will?

_“Hannibal,”_ he says, aware just how much the stressed overwhelm in his voice makes the man’s name sound like a whine. He is also aware, not for the first time, that it’s not exactly what he wants to say, only nerves and a heightened sense of _meaning_ attached to the simplest utterance of a name preventing him from giving away too freely, too soon, what wants to be said in response to every kind word, every comforting touch, every affectionate smile. In short, every new piece of mounting evidence that he is not only _not_ a burden but wholly and emphatically wanted here in Hannibal’s life.

It’s not that he ever felt _unwanted_ by his mother or his first father, certainly not. He knew that he mattered. He knew he was loved. But _knowing_ and having it _proven_ in every word, gesture, and touch are very different things. Between Levi’s comatose drinking and Eleanor’s constant internalized self-flagellation, between their equally busy, fluctuating work schedules leading to them often coming home tired and drained, which he knew was partially due to the expense of raising him, Will had never sought those reassurances and never known how much he was missing out on them. Until now.

Will reaches down for the first gift within reach because that’s easier, less _needy_ , than admitting he suddenly, desperately wants another hug from the man whose arm he just pulled away from on the couch not five minutes ago. It’s about the size of a shoebox. He pulls the tape up at the seams of the wrapping carefully, a habit borne of knowing that every square inch of paper not torn to shreds is more that can be reused next year. It’s…shoes. Huh. Somehow he wasn’t expecting that. They’re really _nice_ shoes, probably genuine leather if he hazards a guess, but still. He hopes his father wasn’t expecting a _big_ reaction, because knowing that they probably cost more than he would ever care to spend on footwear himself doesn’t change the fact that they’re just _shoes_.

He chances a glance upward and is relieved to find that his dad actually seems amused by his nonplussed reaction rather than offended. “I confess, these may be a gift more for myself than for you,” he says, gesturing not just to the fancy brown oxfords but to the entire spread on his mattress. Will raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“How greedy of you,” he responds, enjoying the novelty of a parent who appears to relish it whenever Will mouths off to him—though only within reasonable, specific circumstances, he’s sure. Curiosity now piqued, he rolls up the sleeves of his dad’s oversized red sweater for the umpteenth time and grabs the next box in the stack, wider and longer but also thinner and lighter than the first. Removing the paper reveals a white cardboard garment box, so even before opening it he has an idea now what the theme here is.

Sure enough, folded neatly and compactly within is a pale blue button-up shirt, a dark blue sweater more fitted to Will’s size than what he’s currently wearing, a charcoal blazer and slacks, and a buttery soft belt that is _definitely_ genuine leather. All of it is pretty soft actually, and likely more comfortable than the “itchy monkey suits” his other dad liked to complain about wearing to special occasions, not that they ever went to many of those. Will had been young enough then to get away with just a decent solid-colored shirt and chinos, but that’s obviously not going to cut it now. At least it’s simple in design and not tailored to match with one of those crazy windowpane patterns he’d seen hanging up in his father’s closet today. That doesn’t make him feel any less like an overgrown dress-up doll. _A gift for himself indeed._ “It’s lovely, thank you.”

Hannibal gives him a flat stare which Will has figured out by now is more or less his equivalent of an eye roll, just subtly different enough from some of the other flat stares he’s worn. Something about the particular slant of his eyebrows. Maybe Will went a little _too_ cheeky in his response that time.

The last present is _another_ garment box. He mentally steels himself as he opens it up to find…twill? He pulls it out and realizes he’s holding a long, thick coat, the kind that goes past his knees like a trench coat. It pairs much better with the suit ensemble than his ratty old hunter’s green jacket would, which of course is the point, but even aside from that he can picture himself wearing it whenever there’s snow out. That makes it the most practical gift in the set. “I’ve always wanted a coat like this actually.”

Hannibal tilts his head, surprised and pleased by how well this last one is received compared to the others. “Check the inner breast pocket,” he says. Will blinks up at him. There’s _more?_

He feels around the smooth, satiny inner layer until he finds the seam and reaches inside. What he pulls out is two stiff rectangular pieces of paper. “Oh.” They’re tickets to the Nutcracker ballet, for _tonight_.

“As I said, perhaps it’s more a present to myself.” The look on Hannibal’s face is different now from any he’s seen before, making it much harder to identify. He’d almost say it’s bashful. “I thought you might enjoy the opportunity to be out of the house for a bit, however, and it would be a fair introduction to the type of productions I normally attend without the requirement of socializing with my acquaintances.”

“Tchaikovsky, right?” Will can tell he’s managed to pleasantly surprise the man again as he gives an affirming nod, though honestly it can’t be that impressive. The Nutcracker Suite certainly isn’t an obscure piece. “Sounds awesome,” he says, giving a sweet, sincere smile. Even if he doesn’t end up liking it, it would be nice to get out for awhile. “What time do we leave?”

“Be ready in half an hour,” Hannibal tells him, lightly tapping the end of Will’s nose with his pointer finger as he walks by him toward the door. Will pulls his head back and tries to look annoyed but ultimately fails to hide another smile. His dad is so _weird_ just for weirdness’s sake sometimes, or more accurately just to see what kind of reaction his weirdness gets, like he thinks it’s cute or something to see if Will gets all huffy about it.

The door clicks shut softly behind him, and Will is left alone to get dressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter to date and we didn't even get through all of Christmas _Eve_ yet, so I guess we're having Christmas in July _and_ August now, lol whoops.
> 
> And just in case anyone forgot, this is December 1997, so the Zelda game mentioned above is in reference to [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UQlP9sHf5Ho&t=7432s) and NOT [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXRqLp8daiw) lmao.


	11. Pas de Deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pas de Deux](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YgaUkPqiASc) of the Sugar Plum Fairy and her Cavalier from Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite.
> 
> This is the longest Christmas Eve ever, y'all, I swear. xD

Will meets his father back downstairs a short while later, similarly dressed in what must count as a “business casual” suit for him, compared to the many types of cuts and patterns he’d seen in the man’s closet. He looks Will over in his new outfit approvingly and adjusts the boy’s collar when he steps closer, smoothing his hands over his shoulders and down his arms when he’s done. Will allows the fussing without making any wiseass comments. This is to be their first outing together since he moved in, and he knows it must mean a lot to the older man to be able to take him to something like this.

Outside, Will looks back toward the house and is surprised to notice the same tasteful Christmas lighting from their tree done up on the roof and around the front door, coming on automatically as the light in the sky just starts to fade into dusk. He has a sneaking suspicion Hannibal timed their leaving to coincide with this on purpose. “How long has all this been out here?”

“It was installed the same day the movers arrived to deliver the tree.” Ok, Will feels really oblivious now for somehow not hearing people stapling lights to the roofing outside. He must have been more absorbed with his game and trying to make out the words his father was saying to the movers in the other room than he thought. Still, that the outside of their house had looked like this for a whole week while he’d had no idea at all is oddly unsettling. He hasn’t given much thought before now to just how little he’s been out of the house since he arrived.

Hannibal has had to go out a few times, of course, despite not being scheduled to return to work until the first Monday in January. Quick trips to the grocery store, or to his practice to take care of paperwork left undone and phone calls to anxious patients who couldn’t wait until their next in-person appointment for their therapy to resume. He’d confided to Will that this last was making him think of getting a work cellular, something he would have never considered before because he didn’t want patients taking it as invitation to call him outside of office hours.

For each and every one of these errand runs Will has briefly considered, and then summarily rejected, asking to tag along. He doesn’t want to come across as clingy, or as so boring that he can’t possibly manage to entertain himself for an hour or two while his dad is away. Now, as he slides into the passenger seat of his father’s Bentley for only the second time in his life, he realizes how cooped up and isolated he’s been and that’s…not exactly a _bad_ thing by his own reckoning, but maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible idea to suggest they go out together next time there’s some shopping to be done.

For the most part, everyone Hannibal knows who usually goes to these things should be out of town, staying home with family, or attending similar performances in Baltimore while the particular showing Hannibal is taking him to tonight will be in D.C., so apparently that was what he meant about avoiding social obligations this evening. When Will asks what they’ll do if someone happens to recognize him anyway, he answers brightly, “We’ll duck behind the rest of the crowd and pretend not to see them.”

Will snickers and pushes up his glasses, imagining it. Somehow, he suspects such behavior from the esteemed, courtly Dr. Lecter would be so shocking to anyone who’s ever met him, they would assume they had been mistaken about whom they had spotted in the first place, especially if he’s there with a teenager in tow.

It’s about an hour-long drive, with instrumental carols playing quietly from the car’s speakers while Hannibal occasionally points out different landmarks, historical background for some of the older buildings as they pass, or comments about various little shops and businesses he likes to patronize further down the streets that intersect the one they’re on. He’s become used to the house on Chandler Square being their own cozy little bubble away from everything else, but the commentary helps Will contextualize the rest of the city as a living, breathing organism his father is as much a part of as any native-born citizen, one that he will become part of as well as he dares to venture out more in the future.

The comments in D.C. are fewer and often less warmly familiar, though he is unsurprised his dad also has more to say about the history here than most of the people born in this country even know about, Will included. He kind of wants to know now what it would be like to walk through a museum with the man, which exhibits he would favor and tell Will about in more detail than a few vague summarized plaques and graphical charts would give. He seems to carry encyclopedic knowledge about _so many_ disparate things, but then again so does Will to a lesser extent. Could their curiosity be a genetic trait?

There are lots of people in the theatre lobby already when they arrive, but it’s nice to see that they aren’t all a bunch of high society types. There are tons of families and folks who probably don’t normally do this sort of thing since The Nutcracker is well-known and mainstream enough to be more easily accessible to a wider audience. He can understand now why his dad is so confident they won’t have trouble dodging any of his acquaintances who happen to be in attendance, and he’s grateful for the way Hannibal insists on linking arms so they won’t get accidentally separated as they move through the crowd. It’s reassuring to feel the warmth of him against his side, a grounding force against the din of voices and excited childish squeals.

Some of that excitement still manages to bubble over into him as they take their seats, or maybe he’s naturally feeling a zip of energy all his own from being taken somewhere so novel and different from anywhere he’s been before. He flips through the program leaflet for something to do with his hands, pausing when he gets to the cast list. “I don’t see the name Clara anywhere?” he remarks, phrasing it like a question.

“The protagonist’s name varies from one production to another because it is based on different versions of the same story. In this one, the girl’s name is Marie,” Hannibal says, pointing to it and the young dancer’s name listed beside it. “The ballet is also famous, of course, for utilizing a cast of children as well as adults. It’s quite an exciting opportunity for the students of the local ballet schools each year.” Will wonders how many of the kids in the audience tonight aren’t just here because their parents thought it would be culturally enriching and actually asked to come to cheer on their classmates.

The lights dim, and the ballet begins. The conductor waves her wand, the music starts to play, and on stage a boy and a girl in period clothing peer into the keyhole of a door painted on a translucent scrim “wall” through which the audience can see the children’s parents adding finishing touches to the Christmas tree’s decorations in the parlor on the other side.

The first act is the half in which the kids do most of the dancing. He can appreciate their talent and the choreography that must go into coordinating a bunch of tiny energetic people half his own age into staying on cue with each other, but moreso he appreciates what he can see of their expressions from this distance that makes it clear they’re all having a blast playing their roles. It’s hard for him initially to get out of this mindset of analyzing the technical reality in favor of sinking into the story instead, maybe because it’s live and in-person instead of separate from him on a screen.

Before the presents are given out, Drosselmeyer opens a set of giant wrapped boxes to reveal another adult pair, two dancers who appear to portray life-sized wind-up dolls, one in a shimmery maid’s dress with a cap of flowers on her head and one dressed up in colorful check-patterns like a court jester. Here, his father leans into Will’s space to whisper in his ear, drawing puffs of breath that very lightly stir his hair and warm his skin. “Columbine and Harlequin. They were originally stock characters from the Italian _commedia dell’arte_ who came to play integral part in the British Christmas pantomimes of later centuries. He is a spirited magician who uses his cleverness and tricks to woo the equally clever Columbina while evading capture by those who would separate the two lovers.”

Will watches their short dance together with greater interest, more charmed than he would have expected to be without the added context by Harlequin’s final bowing kiss to Columbine’s hand before the couple freezes in motion like a pair of toys shutting down at the end of their cycle. It’s easier after that to see past the actors on stage to the characters they’re supposed to be. He waits for his father to lean in and tell him more throughout the rest of the ballet but he never does, absorbed by the music and possibly not wanting to distract Will any further from the show.

They never see any of Hannibal’s opera friends during the intermission between acts or after final bows, or at the very least his dad doesn’t mention it if he happens to spot any. Instead of driving straight home, he takes them to a Japanese restaurant that comes “highly recommended and well-reviewed” by those same friends, so apparently even _he_ sometimes takes breaks from cooking for himself after a long and busy day. He orders a glass of wine but Will doesn’t worry about him driving impaired. Alcohol is a mere pleasure for him, not a vice. He can trust this man to know his limitations and stop at one.

Will tries to get away with ordering a Coke but gets admonished for his trouble. “You know perfectly well you exceeded your usual allowance of caffeine this morning, young man.” _Embarrassing_. The waitress tries to be helpful by suggesting Sprite instead and Will agrees in a rush just to make her go away faster. Hannibal doesn’t look exactly thrilled by this choice either but at least he doesn’t put his foot down again.

“There will be more coffee for you tomorrow. No reason to pout, darling.” Will looks up from the menu he thought he’d effectively hidden himself behind, first to glance at his father and then to dart his eyes around the rest of the dining area to see if anyone else overheard. No one appears to be looking at them. Relief and disappointment commingle strangely.

He knows he should probably hate the pet names and have tried to put a stop to them early on, as most guys his own age likely would, but that would mean denying himself the small thrill of delight that shoots up his spine every time his dad refers to him this way, like he’s somehow precious, unique, _special_ in a way no one else in Hannibal’s life could hope to match. Why pretend to be normal by trying to protect some fragile masculine ego he already doesn’t possess? There are plenty of _other_ ways he’s different that his peers have always been happy to mock or bully him for that actually hit closer to home, without him having to give them this as well.

“Did you enjoy the performance tonight?” his father asks once they’ve placed the rest of their order. He swirls the wine in his glass before taking a small sniff and sipping it. Will would follow his movements instinctively if his fingers didn’t grip around an entirely differently shaped glass, serving as reminder of why he has no reason to copy the gesture. He puckers his lips around the plastic straw, glad he didn’t make a fool of himself by shaking his fizzy carbonated drink and sloshing it all over the table.

“I did.” Knowing he’ll expect a more thorough answer than this, Will elaborates. “I didn’t care for the second act as much as the first to be honest. It just seemed like a lot of fluff tacked onto a story that was already finished. It was good though. The dance of the snowflakes was my favorite part.”

“Perhaps traditional theatre suits your interests more,” Hannibal allows with a smile. Will is glad he doesn’t seem put out that his son wasn’t as riveted by the music as he, content that he enjoyed it at all even if Will’s appreciation is somewhat lukewarm in comparison with his own. “My favorite was the Waltz of the Flowers.”

“Hope’s renewal is the spring.” That’s not how the saying goes, but Will likes his own phrasing better. He likes even more that he can get away with these little florid touches of language and occasional impromptu poetics without odd stares or accusations of being some kind of smarmy tryhard. With his dad around, Will is no longer the most pretentious weirdo in the room.

“The bloom that buds as the last snows melt,” Hannibal agrees. _Definitely_ not the only pretentious one in the room anymore, Will decides fondly.

Their food arrives. They have onigiri and a small sushi platter to share, while Will tries unadon, a dish of grilled eel on rice, with a side of vegetable tempura in case the former turns out to be a terrible mistake for his unrefined palate. Thankfully, he realizes after the first bite that this isn’t the case, so he just has extra food to enjoy. His dad gets mushroom and tofu sukiyaki. After a few minutes of eating and gazing mostly at the spread laid out on their table, Will smirks as realization hits.

“Looks like we’re having that vegetarian dinner for Christmas Eve after all. Or, um, pescatarian anyway.” Hannibal looks equal parts thoughtful and amused by Will’s observation.

“I tend to be pickier when it comes to meat more than any of the other food groups, which reflects in my tendency to avoid it for the most part when dining out. It hadn’t occurred to me that you might unintentionally do the same this evening.” The table they sit at is cozy and snug, fit for two with room for nobody else, so Will tries not to let his earlier amusement wane by thinking of any of his father’s other homeland traditions that may have unintentionally followed them on their first night out together.

The city seems quieter as they make the drive home later, fewer and fewer people out on this night in particular as more and more of the stars come out. Will wars with himself silently over thoughts buried somewhere between impulse and intent, a new intangible gift to impart, and a question that he knows could spoil this whole outing. It isn’t until they reach Baltimore city limits that he makes up his mind to brave it all.

_“Dad,”_ he says softly into the Bentley’s darkened interior, staring down at the dashboard in front of him, quiet enough in his timidity that he assumes at first that Hannibal must not have heard him. Then a large, warm hand comes over his own, smaller one, swallowing it whole in the darkness.

“Yes, my love?” Will’s heart swells up as his throat closes and his eyes grow wet. He feels ridiculous and soppy and sentimental, and he hates it. He does not allow himself to turn his hand over so he can tangle their fingers together, in control of that much of his childishness at least.

“Do you think…” he starts, trying to push past his nerves to get the question out. “Is it…is it _wrong_ to be happy now?” The hand over his own spasms in a brief, tight squeeze before loosening up again. “I mean, so soon? I just keep thinking, you know, how it’s been, like, _a month_ since…”

“Will.” The way his father says his name draws him to lift his head up. The hand pulls away for a moment, so Hannibal can make a turn onto a side road, before coming right back. He glances to him with an expression of such love and understanding that Will has to turn away again. “It’s a natural worry to have, but let me ask you something please. How would your mother respond—and for that matter, how would _either_ of them respond—if they heard you asking such a question?”

He can already tell where his dad is going with this, but he gives a wobbly smile as he thinks about the answer anyway. “They’d…probably both say something to the effect of how silly I am for even asking.”

“The silliest boy I’ve ever met,” Hannibal agrees wholeheartedly, which draws a watery laugh from the teen. Despite his words, it doesn’t feel like Will’s fears are simply being dismissed, not with the way that hand still comfortingly covers his own. “You are not the first human to question the nature of your own grief, the correct way to mourn, or how long is considered enough time to wallow in it. Our species has a curious relationship with death and an uncanny obsession over these questions. There is no right answer because grieving is not a by-the-numbers process to be gotten through until you come out on the other side of it.” His hand returns to the steering wheel once again and must stay there, now that they’re back on residential streets and close to their own neighborhood. Most of the houses are brightly lit outside now, some white, some red and green, some multicolor, and even some that flash through a cycle of different hues and patterns. Will focuses on watching them all as the houses go by.

“Truth be told, there is no other side, Will.” His gaze returns to his father once more. “The pain may lessen over time but the loss stays with you, always. That is why it is best not to linger over it and instead cherish the happiness that chooses to pay you a visit, whatever the form it may take.”

Will listens to this paternal wisdom, knowing how much it comes from the man’s personal experience, and thinks it says something about the type of man his father is and why he was so readily willing to accept his son’s new role in his life. How quickly Will latched onto him in kind, with far fewer reservations than he’d had about accepting Eleanor when he’d honestly expected himself to have _more_. His illusions, his ability to pretend that he wasn’t going to let himself get attached all over again, had shattered within just a few hours of meeting Hannibal, the first time he felt strong arms encircle him and a tender masculine voice whisper pet names that should have been humiliating and cringeworthy but instead only made him want to curl tighter into the embrace.

He sees their house come into view, lined by lights which are tastefully understated and elegant compared to some of their gaudier showboat neighbors, and thinks of it like a lighthouse, a port in the storm guiding their way back to shore.

He reaches out first this time after they hang their coats up in the foyer, a hand on his dad’s arm which he uses to pull himself in closer to the taller figure, steadying himself with his other hand on the other arm before lowering his head to rest on a shoulder as it did the first time they hugged. Hannibal’s hands curl at Will’s sides but don’t wrap around him just yet, as if waiting for Will to dictate just how he wants to be held. Will curls an arm around the man’s neck and uses his other hand to shift his dad’s arm up and inward a bit more toward his spine, hoping that’s enough of a hint because it’s not like _Will’s_ experienced enough with hugs to know how the mechanics of one are supposed to work standing up. He hadn’t been nearly this tall the last time he tried to initiate one with his other dad.

The man huffs an amused breath before locking Will into a tight, perfect, squeezing hold, one hand steady at the center of his back while the other rests just above the base of his spine, and Will realizes with a light flush creeping over his skin that he hadn’t been waiting for _guided assistance,_ just for Will to let go of his arms and adjust his own grip more comfortably first. Will shifts the hand still at his father’s elbow to his back and hides his face in the crook of his neck, feeling _silly_ again.

Hannibal’s cheek comes to rest atop his head, where Will’s unruly mop of curls are going to undoubtedly tickle his nose. It’s his own fault if he ends up sneezing, Will decides, and keeps his head exactly where it is. After a moment he notices a gentle rocking, like they’re on a ship at sea—it’s his own doing, not having planted his feet well enough for proper balance, causing them to sway a little from side to side. He decides he doesn’t mind that either if Dad doesn’t mind it.

He keeps waiting for his dad to gently pat him on the back, maybe a little awkward, maybe just matter of fact, signaling the end of the embrace because it’s not like Will’s a blubbering mess who _needs_ to be held through a mini-breakdown this time, he just _wants_ to be held for a little while. That pat never comes and Will feels himself loosening up more and more in his father’s firm grip, relaxing almost sleepily. He breathes out a warm sigh and stares in tired fascination at the goosebumps that form under his lips on Hannibal’s skin. He feels a sudden urge to peck a kiss there but realizes in the back of his head that this might be too odd a spot for it, something more appropriate for a cheek or forehead maybe, and feeling too lazy now to lift his head for it, he resists the impulse and merely turns his head enough to lay his mouth over his dad’s shirt beneath his collar, stubbornly uncaring that the motion shifts his glasses a bit askew.

He cares a little more that it causes his dad to lift his head away from Will’s, and must make an unconscious disgruntled noise because the man swoops in to plant a light kiss to his temple immediately as if in apology. Will sighs again and supposes they’ve been like this long enough. He starts to pull back and Hannibal lets him, only loosening his hold rather than letting go entirely, which is good because Will might have a little more trouble standing on his own than he first thought.

“You look like you’re ready for bed.” The man reaches up to adjust Will’s glasses. “Why don’t you go change and I’ll bring up a glass of warm milk as a nightcap before tucking you in?”

“M’not a _baby,”_ Will complains, face forming into a frown that is really more of a scrunched up pout like the one he apparently had on earlier at the restaurant.

“Certainly not,” Hannibal agrees, and taps him on the nose again like he had much earlier this evening. “But you’ll indulge me in this anyway, won’t you, darling?”

Will grumbles something that vaguely resembles the phrase, “I guess,” and shuffles his way upstairs. He’s glad he had the foresight to remake his bed before they left under the assumption that they might be back late, since as it is he feels much too lazy to even bother with pajamas again and just strips down to his T-shirt and boxer shorts, unwilling even to pick his socks up from the floor after he toes them off.

He’s already half-dozing, sitting up with his back against the headboard, by the time Hannibal walks in. He looks Will over fondly before handing him the glass mug. The milk is delicious, of course, the perfect temperature and sweetened with honey and vanilla and spices, the most prominent of which is cinnamon but there’s also something that reminds him of cloves but milder and less bitter. Will drains it quickly and swipes a hand over his mouth to make sure he doesn’t have a milk mustache. The glass is plucked from his hand, and he puts up less of a fuss than he’s probably expected to when his dad lifts up the corner of the blankets to help him climb into them. He’s too sleepy to care anymore if it’s childish, and blinks up at the man to joke, “You gonna read me a bedtime story now?”

“If you like.” Will snorts and shakes his head. “Not tonight then.” Hannibal really takes this “tucking in” business seriously apparently, pulling the blankets up below Will’s chin and smoothing them out over his prone form before laying another soft kiss to his forehead. He must be loving that Will is in a lax enough mood to let him get away with it all without squirming away or saying something snide. “Good night, darling,” he says.

“Night, Dad,” Will murmurs back. In the lamplight, he can see the effect it has this time, the sudden swell of emotion that completely stills his father’s face for a moment, as if he’s feeling too much to know what expression to make.

He allows himself to start drifting off again with his father still in the room, feeling warm and safe. His last waking image is of Dad picking up his discarded clothing to take to the laundry room before shutting off the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the full version of the [The Nutcracker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WO2SxXcffyI) I've had playing in the background all week, for those interested.
> 
> Next week, these two will hopefully get through not just Christmas Day but the rest of December without dragging it out yet another chapter. Otherwise, I might just lose my damn mind. _This holiday was just supposed to be one chapter! One! _ヽ(ಠ_ಠ)ノ__


	12. Noël

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The First Noel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QlyFYiqrsiY) as performed by Daisuke Minamizawa.
> 
> Ok, now THIS is the longest chapter ever because I am _determined_ that By 👏 God 👏 Christmas 👏 Ends 👏 Today! 😊
> 
> See you guys at New Years next week lol 🥳

Will rolls out of bed, still a little groggy from how deeply he slept last night, and stumbles blearily to the bathroom across the hall. He’s normally a bit restless, prone to tossing and turning, but he’s pretty sure this time he barely moved a muscle once his dad tucked him in for the evening. He probably shouldn’t tell him that though, lest it become a part of their regular nightly routine. Dad clearly enjoyed it quite a bit, which is going to make turning down future offers _much_ harder, but Will still has some dignity left he’d like to maintain if he can.

He splashes cold water on his face to help himself wake up more, then uses the restroom and takes care of the rest of his morning hygiene routine. He returns to his room intending to throw on his flannel sleep pants, but pauses in the doorway, noting how high the sun already is through his window and listening to the stillness of the house. Dad would normally be up and halfway through making breakfast by now—the only way Will had beaten him to it yesterday was by making sure he got up earlier himself, which likely contributed to how tired he was by the time they got home last night. He turns around and walks further down the hall, lightly rapping knuckles against his father’s bedroom door. If he doesn’t respond to the quiet knock, Will can just poke his head in to make sure he’s just asleep and everything’s ok before heading down to the kitchen himself again.

He listens for any sound through the door and hears a rasp of rustling fabric before footsteps approach on the padded rug, then on solid wooden flooring, and pulls his ear away from the door before it opens. Hannibal stands in the doorframe wearing only pajama bottoms, hair still mussed from sleep and falling into his eyes. “Good morning,” he says, beating Will to it as usual even though he just got up, voice thicker like it had been after their nap yesterday.

“Mornin’,” Will responds, the visible evidence of Hannibal still being a little rumpled from just getting out of bed making him a bit giddy like…well, like a kid on Christmas morning. “It’s not like you to sleep in.”

His dad smiles as he often does like Will’s amusement is contagious, eyes still half-lidded, and opens his door wider in invitation while stepping back, then goes to his bedside dresser to find a shirt. Will follows him in. “I stayed up for a while after you turned in and thought I would make up a few of those extra hours with a later lie-in.”

“Oh.” Will feels kind of guilty now about waking him up. “Sorry for disrupting that. You could go back to sleep if you want.” Hannibal drops his shirt back into the open dresser and turns to looks at him, apparently considering it.

“Hm, I suppose I could,” he says thoughtfully. “You can make up for the disruption by helping me return to slumber. I hear teddy bears are quite effective in that regard.” It’s the only warning Will gets before his father abruptly grabs him by the arms and yanks him down onto the plush mattress with him. Will makes a noise that he would testify in court under penalty of perjury was most definitely not a squeal, pinned onto his back with the covers thrown over them both and his father’s strong arms wrapped around him before he has enough presence of mind to struggle.

“Wh— _hey!”_ Will squirms and tries to escape but only succeeds in turning himself onto his side so they are spooning together, his father’s broad bare chest against his back. His shirt has been rucked up so he feels the warmth of a somewhat fuzzy stomach against his lower back and a muscular arm tucked against his own belly. “I-I didn’t say _I_ was going back to bed with you,” he huffs.

Will’s dad hums with a face full of Will’s curls. “Can’t understand you, dear…so very comfortable now…already taking wonderful soporific effect…” he mutters, deliberately slowing his speech and lowering the volume of his voice more and more as he goes.

The boy snorts. “Yeah, pretty sure sleepy men aren’t supposed to be coherent enough to use words like _soporific,”_ he counters. The response this time is an obnoxious, sawing snore. Will is unable to suppress his giggles any longer and turns his face into the pillow to try and mask it. He kicks his father’s shin with a bare foot, careful not to actually hit too hard. “Dad, come on, knock it off!” When that and another failed squirm to get away aren’t enough to dislodge him, he resorts to using the only weapon that’s sure to have an effect in his arsenal. _“Daaaaad,_ I’m hungry. I want breakfast.”

Hannibal sighs regretfully as if those are indeed the only magic words that could possibly work to unlock his arms from around Will’s torso. Will turns onto his back again once the hold loosens to glare up at the man who’s shifted up onto his elbow to look down at him. “You don’t play fair, darling.”

“Neither do you.” Hannibal kisses away the false frown on his boy’s face with a light peck between his eyebrows and sits up fully to allow Will the space to get up.

Downstairs a few minutes later, both wide awake now and fully dressed— _sleep pants and sweaters count as fully dressed, right?_ —Hannibal starts preparing scones and asks Will if he knows how to grind the coffee beans already set aside on the counter. Oh, Will knows how to do that alright, and more. While he’d feigned being focused entirely on the pancakes yesterday, much of his attention had secretly been on his dad working the complicated-looking contraption that makes mornings the favorite part of his day now, and he can say with confidence that it’s not nearly as intimidating as it had once seemed.

His dad pauses in his own work to watch Will set the machine up to brew with a wry quirk of his mouth. “I can see I’m going to have to lock away the coffee beans when I leave you alone in the house from now on and take the key with me.” Will sticks his tongue out at the man’s back when he turns to grab something out of the fridge.

“But not the decaf ones though, right?” he asks oh-so-sweetly, gratified when his father actually pauses in his movements for a moment. “Even if it’s the same brand and everything, decaf smells different, you know. It’s subtle, especially if you don’t cheap out on it and get a decent roast, but I can still tell.”

“I know. I wasn’t aware that you could tell the difference as well.” Dad stares at him a second longer, riveted by this newly shared detail, then shifts back into amusement. “If you’ve noticed that, then you’ve also noticed the difference between a freshly refilled cup and one that is allowed to stagnate for a long period of time,” he points out. Oops. Will flushes, realizing they’ve apparently both caught each other.

“I noticed. I just wasn’t aware _you_ could tell as well,” he echoes back. “Not that I’d _have_ to get so many refills if you just gave me the good stuff in the first place.” Hannibal chuckles and doesn’t say anything further, easing the slight tension in Will’s back as he realizes he’s somehow still not in trouble. Maybe he’s getting a reprieve because it’s Christmas. He’s not foolish enough to think his father’s fondness for him makes him immune to punishment just because it hasn’t happened yet.

Breakfast is a relatively light affair compared to most mornings. There are three types of scones—the blueberry ones are Will’s favorite, but the cranberry comes in at a surprisingly close second. He barely touches the raisin one on his plate after the first few nibbles. He doesn’t get scolded for that either. Dad seems unusually eager to get through this meal quickly. Will only remembers why that might be as he’s led into the den a short while later.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the impatient one for this?” he teases, only for the smirk to fall away from his face entirely as he spies the large piles of presents stacked onto the previously barren skirt under the tree. _“Dad.”_ It can’t possibly be… _all of this?_ “Tell me some of this is for your snobby rich friends.”

“I don’t pretend to understand where this reluctance to allow yourself nice things comes from,” Hannibal says in a tone that suggests he knows exactly where it comes from but refuses to give voice to it to avoid a fight. “But I would spoil you much more thoroughly than this to ensure its disappearance.” Geez, that is…not at all what a reasonable parent is supposed to say, no matter how doting. He really would have grown up to be a snobby rich brat himself if Hannibal had been a part of his life from the beginning, wouldn’t he? Will hides his burning face in his hands, entirely overwhelmed already and he hasn’t even _opened_ anything yet.

“Would it help if I direct you where to start?” his dad asks, obviously amused. _Yes, actually,_ Will decides with a firm nod. Hannibal points and Will finally kneels to pick out the box he selected. He’s almost relieved by the weight and feel of it to discover that it’s probably more clothes. That’s not _quite_ so preposterous, from a certain point of view. Can’t scandalize the Baltimore elites by allowing his son to go around in nothing but holey jeans and old stained T-shirts, now can he?

He shifts to sitting cross-legged as he opens one garment box after another. It’s not all fancy stuff like the suit he wore last night. Correction—it’s likely all plenty fancy, of higher quality and comfort than anything that’s ever been in Will’s closet before, but at least some of it is actually _casual,_ and not just his dad’s version of casual either. He was considerate enough of Will’s tastes to pick stuff he’d actually want to wear, like jeans and chinos and soft flannels. Although he can’t help but tease again as he holds up one of these last, “You know, the fashion is to wear these too big and baggy, not in a size that actually fits.” There’s also nicer underwear and socks in the steadily growing pile, but he is _not_ going to comment upon those. He’s sure he would have died of mortification had there been specific sets of those laid out with the rest of his outfit yesterday.

“Ah, you mean to tell me that was a stylistic choice on your part?” Hannibal asks lightly, a return parry in reference to some of what already hangs in Will’s closet. The boy smirks but shakes his head.

“Not really, I don’t care much about trends, even ones that are deliberately _anti_ -trend,” he says with an eye roll. “It’s more about making sure I have stuff I don’t grow out of in the next few years.” His dad doesn’t exactly frown, but it’s a near thing.

“You needn’t worry about that anymore,” he reminds Will, who simply shrugs before moving on to the next stack of presents. _Jesus,_ there’s so many. Hannibal has to periodically take the unwrapped boxes and set them aside against the wall so they don’t clutter around Will and take up too much space while he continues to unwrap more. Hopefully it’s because Will just moved in with practically nothing of his own, and he won’t go this overboard again for future birthdays and Christmases. Hopefully.

There are books on various subjects, including a lot more modern fiction than what’s currently on his dad’s shelves. One of these is the latest Komeda murder mystery novel, which he’s actually pretty excited about since he was on the waitlist to check it out from a library that’s now hours away from where he currently lives. He needs to remember to ask Dad to take him to one here at some point so he can get a new card.

“For a bit of transparency, this one might technically qualify as a ‘re-gift,’” Hannibal explains. “I received it in the mail not long after sending out our cancellations. Frances consulted me on a few technical questions regarding modern anesthetic practices and wanted to give me a copy at the party as a thank you.”

“You know Frances Komeda? You’re _friends_ with her?” Will asks, bug-eyed. He flips to the very back where, sure enough, there’s _his father’s name_ among a short list of others on the acknowledgments page, then back to the front where there’s a handwritten note in the blank space of the title page— _‘Hannibal, what would I do without your unending patience and generosity? I hope you know this means I’ll be abusing more of it soon for my next project. -F.K.’_

“I take it you’re a fan. She’ll be tickled pink when she hears of it.” Will sets it down gingerly on top of the other books he has stacked, as if worried he’ll mess it up somehow. “Perhaps it will encourage you to look forward to our first dinner party together more, knowing that she would also be in attendance. She has never turned down a single invitation, though admittedly there are few who ever would.”

Will groans. “Great, now I’m going to be even _more_ nervous about going.” To save himself from his father’s relentlessly amused gaze, he grabs another present that’s much too small to be another book, most definitely a CD by its shape. There are six of them. Will’s actually pretty curious what his father would regard as good music that he doesn’t already own a copy of himself, or if these are more concessions to Will’s tastes outside of where they overlap with his own.

“Ah, one moment,” Hannibal says, fingers alighting delicately on Will’s knuckles to prevent him from tearing it open just yet. He moves aside more of the gifts Will just opened, then kneels down beside him and pulls closer a box much larger than any of the others which Will had been avoiding getting to yet on purpose, saving the biggest for last. “Might I suggest opening this one first?” Will accepts the trade, wondering if it’s some kind of new stereo system, though that seems strange when they already have a pretty spectacular one.

Will tears away the paper and gawks. It’s a PlayStation. His refined, sophisticated father whose hobbies include opera, gourmet cooking, playing the harpsichord, and owning way too many absurdly patterned suits bought him a _freaking PlayStation._ “Is…is this why you were asking me what kind of games I like last week?” He’d assumed _at most_ maybe another cartridge or two for the Game Boy he already owns, _if_ the man even found one he thought suitable. Something educational maybe.

“I thought we could expand your hobby in a way that would cause a bit less strain on the eyes. In reasonable moderation with your studies and other modes of entertainment, of course,” says the man who apparently bought him _six_ games to go with the new console, assuming that’s why he didn’t want Will opening any of the “CDs” first, which is already one more than the five he has for the Game Boy after a few years of building up his collection. “Something to be played on a larger screen and in color.”

More presents which he thought might be small paperbacks turn out to be a couple of memory cards and a Dual Analog controller, and the remaining six are indeed game discs, mostly horror and fantasy titles. One of them he remembers from an ad he’d lingered over while flipping idly through a science magazine on the divan while Hannibal wrote at his desk a little while back. When had the man even looked over at him long enough to _notice_ that?

“Why don’t you start setting it up and pick something to play first while I make us some cocoa?” Dad brushes another kiss to his temple and steps out of the room. Will has the sudden urge to pinch himself and make sure he doesn’t wake up back at the foster care facility. This kind of insane decadence can’t really be his life now, can it?

He picks the only one that doesn’t look story-heavy and like it’ll take a while to get into, a collection of old Atari games all on one disc. If his dad is willing to invest this much into a hobby most adults his age would probably consider a waste of time, he might appreciate seeing Will try something more old school first and have something astoundingly, adorably pretentious to say about the evolution of the medium since his own youth or something to that effect. Will may even be able to convince him to try playing a little himself if they start small enough.

“You have a look on your face like you’re plotting something, _caro mio,”_ Hannibal says upon his return, handing the teen a fresh, fragrant mug of hot chocolate.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” the boy says innocently, and takes a long drink before picking up the controller as his father sits beside him.

Atari games are brutally hard, it turns out. After multiple trial runs through everything in the collection, Will just dies repeatedly feeling like he’s hardly made any real progress in any of them. His dad does say something pretentious then about how these older, seemingly simple “tests of coordination and mind mapping of your virtual opponent’s anticipated moves” can be deceptively challenging. Will pounces on this as his opportunity to lift up an eyebrow and hold out the controller in clear invitation. He wants to see _Mr. Deceptively Challenging_ try to do better. He also really wants to finish the last of this sumptuous, creamy cocoa before it gets cold.

He’s gratified to discover his dad is hardly any better at them than he is, only barely edging out Will’s scores on _Super Breakout_ and _Centipede_. His surgical skills may give him some advantage, but it’s not a staggering lead. “You know, a former colleague of mine swore by these old programs as excellent training tools in hand-to-eye coordination, quite useful for the OR. Perhaps it doesn’t translate as well going the other direction, but it seems we could both benefit from following her example nonetheless.”

“Were you better at surgery than you are at gaming?” Will teases.

“I like to think I’m still quite adept in the skill. My steadiness with a scalpel has not waned since I turned it away from the act of saving lives to its sole purpose now in the creative arts.” Will’s seen that steadiness firsthand as Dad sharpens his pencils deftly each time he starts a new sketch. “Would you like to keep playing, start a different game, or help me make lunch?”

“Lunch would be good.” He’s watched his dad cook plenty of times and spent a little time in front of the stove himself now, but they have not yet cooked together.

“Ravioli stuffed with mushrooms, spinach, mozzarella, ricotta, and parmigiano reggiano in a chive butter sauce, with prosciutto and figs on the side,” Hannibal announces what they’re making as he sets ingredients out. “I’m a proponent of learning to do things by hand first, but to make it easier for you and speed up the process a little, we’ll only make a third of the batch that way. For the rest, we’ll use a pasta roller and cutter.”

Even with the roller and cutter, it’s a time-consuming process, long enough that Dad relents to breaking out the prosciutto and figs early when Will’s stomach grumbles while the pasta dough is still resting. They hop up on stools at the central countertop to eat instead of taking the charcuterie board into the dining room.

“While I prefer a traditional Italian Christmas dinner, I was thinking I might substitute a lighter Lithuanian dessert for the usual panettone,” he says at the table over their finished ravioli later.

“How are you thinking about dinner already? I can’t even fathom finishing all this right now,” Will complains before shoveling another forkful of pasta into his greedy mouth.

“Don’t worry about leftovers. I’ll chill what’s left of the ravioli and use it for an antipasto salad later this evening,” Hannibal tells him with a wink. That’s enough to convince Will to at least slow down a little. Probably a bad idea to gorge himself now when it sounds like his dad is planning a whole feast for tonight’s supper.

By the time dishes are washed and his presents are put away, between all that work and still managing to overstuff him anyway, he’s about ready for another nap like yesterday but still asks if there’s anything else he can do to help since Dad seems determined to go ahead and get started on making dinner.

“No, you’re still recovering even if you think you’re fine with this much activity for one day. Get some rest, and when you wake up, I forbid you to do anything other than play games and enjoy yourself until I call you for dinner.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Will answers sarcastically, fully expecting the reaction to be somewhere in range between a light scoff or a mock scolding. Instead, his father scoops him sideways into another hug and plants a lingering kiss on Will’s cheek.

“That’s a good boy,” he says, soft and genuine against Will’s skin before letting him go. Will blinks and stands stupefied for a moment before remembering what he’s supposed to be doing and turning around to obey his father’s orders. He’s not sure he’s still tired at first but drapes himself lengthwise over the loveseat anyway and stares at the tree upside down, allowing all the colors and lights to blur and coalesce in his vision before eventually drifting off.

*

Hannibal busies himself with dinner preparations and does not allow himself to leave the kitchen more than once, to check on the angel dozing on the couch that is almost too small for him, and only when he is finished rubbing dried thyme, salt, and white pepper over the veal for tonight’s main course.

His thoughts return over and over to the plethora of immeasurable, perfect gifts Will has bestowed upon him since he entered Hannibal’s life, especially those newly given over the last two days. How he’s reached for his father more and more and accommodated his every request, eager to please. How lovingly that name falls now from his son’s lips in reference to _him_ and not the pretender. How sweet his boy tasted on his own lips shortly after adding that final syllable onto it, even if it was meant at the time in jest. How innocently debauched he’d been made in that one instant and afterwards as he stood there lingering, flushed with endorphins and entirely unaware of it, precious thing.

It takes him unaccountably longer than it should to make everything ready, given how many times he must pause to set these memories back in their rightful places inside his mind palace. There have been so many of these new moments recently to sort through that he has not been able to properly categorize them all yet. Will’s wing of the palace is expanding and still threatening to spill over, almost chaotic in its growth.

This is where their courtship grows especially delicate. Too much too fast and his son will frighten, close off, and pull away. It is almost inevitable he will do so anyway once he starts to understand how deeply entangled they have already become. Hannibal wants them too deeply entwined for Will to be able to shut all the doors to his mind when that happens, too enmeshed and ensnared for him to pull away far.

When the roast is in the oven and everything else is prepared, only then does he allow himself to stray back into the den to find his son finally awake, and the sound of breaking glass through the television’s speakers which causes his son to yelp in alarm. “Oh no. Nononono…” Another crash causes him to tense up without making a sound this time, only relaxing with the sound of a door creaking open. Only then does Hannibal come in and sit beside Will again, who pulls up a menu screen and sets the controller down. “Dogs.” He turns his head to look at his father. “Why does it have to be evil _dogs?”_

“Do dogs frighten you?” Will looks positively offended by the question.

“No! I mean, _those_ do, but they’re supposed to. Not real ones. Dogs are amazing and cute and would never jump through a closed window and attempt to eat my face off unless they were rabid.” He tilts his head to the side. “Which I guess these ones sort of are. And dead. Dead and rabid like Old Yeller.” He frowns. “I’m gonna have to go back in there and put them down like Old Yeller too.”

“As they are already simultaneously dead and rabid, I imagine that could only be a mercy.”

“You’re making fun of me for getting into a game _you_ bought me.” He dares to card his fingers through his son’s hair as the boy often likes when he is distressed or annoyed, or only pretending to be so like now. He might pretend sometimes _because_ it gets him this physical reminder of his father’s affection. The boy closes his eyes automatically with the gesture, sighing. Lovely, petulant thing.

He could spend this time alone drawing or reading as his favorite composers play softly in the background until the roast is done, or he could stay right here to suffer through poor voice acting and an absurd plot that mostly appears to revolve around shooting or running from shambling monsters and pushing furniture into unlikely positions. He chooses the latter, resting one arm along the back of the loveseat behind Will’s head, attention partly on the screen but mostly on watching his son’s shifting expressions of concentration, intrigue, and enjoyment in profile. Will seems to enjoy his presence as well, at times subtly and unconsciously moving closer until knees and occasionally thighs brush against one another, especially during tense scenes. He is nearly regretful when it is time to take the veal out of the oven and announce dinner is ready. Will returns to the last save point he found and shuts down the console before following him back into the dining room.

He distinctly enjoys the salad but pauses with fork in hand when they get to the main dish. “Isn’t veal cut from calves instead of adult cattle?” Hannibal tilts his head in acknowledgment.

“I should have asked if you had ethical concerns beforehand,” he replies, a bit disappointed but willing to allow Will to skip this course if he chooses. Will looks to him, whether intentionally or unconsciously trying to get a read on his father’s thoughts on the matter is unclear.

“Doesn’t matter, I guess. Meat is meat wherever it comes from, right?” he says, and takes the first bite. Hannibal agrees, deeply gratified with this result.

“Kūčiukai,” he names the final course later as he brings out two bowls. “Usually served at the end of the night on Kūčios, but since we went out to dinner yesterday I decided to make it now. Small leavened biscuits served in sweetened poppy seed milk.”

“So…you made cereal for dessert.” Hannibal blinks, briefly taken off guard by the oversimplification.

“Yes,” he says, and sits down. Will does a poor job of hiding his smile behind his hand before dipping his spoon into his “cereal.” In spite of his sass, he finishes it rapidly. Hannibal rarely makes Lithuanian recipes anymore, but he may add a few on occasion into their menu rotation from now on to see how his son takes to them as well.

“Can we have more cocoa?” the boy asks as he dries the dishes his father hands off to him later. This request pairs conveniently well with his plans for the end of their evening, so Hannibal nods.

“As beautiful as our tree is, I think it would be more relaxing to take our drinks in front of the fireplace tonight, don’t you?” he suggests, almost rhetorical since Will rarely says no to a suggestion unless he has a specific reason. He has more cause to like the room with the television now, of course, but Hannibal is quite confident he won’t want to spend _all_ of his free time in the den after tonight. Will agrees, and before making the hot chocolate yet, they go to the study to start a fire first.

As he had done in the den this morning, Hannibal simply turns on the light as he enters the room and then stands to one side to allow himself a clear view of the boy’s face when he notices the change. As before, Will stops only a few feet into the room and stares in stunned silence. Unlike before, it appears to take much longer for him to find his voice again. His reaction is more visceral and emotional this time, as Hannibal can privately admit to having hoped for. “This is…” he starts to say, voice cracking a bit. “I thought the PlayStation was already too much.” Will hides his eyes behind his hand and laughs wetly at his earlier naivety.

“Merry Christmas, darling.” Another wet laugh. “Do you like it?” he asks. He can’t predict the boy quite well enough to tell if his reaction is entirely positive or if the gift brings to mind other associations that would tinge it more toward the bittersweet.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Were he a man with slower reflexes, he might not have caught the teenager launching himself into his arms with twice the childish enthusiasm and energy he’d shown on that first morning upon seeing his father’s harpsichord. “I love it,” he says with arms around Hannibal and his face hidden shyly against his dad’s shoulder. “I just, I can’t _believe_ you!” He pounds a weak fist against the opposite shoulder and quickly wipes his eyes. “This was here _all day_ and you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t wish for your enjoyment in your other gifts this morning to be overshadowed by this one.” Will puffs his cheeks out in a show of irritation that is truly adorable beyond words. He is less thrilled when Will takes a deliberate step back, but it is only to turn around and admire his present up close.

“How did you even get it in here without me noticing? I wasn’t _that_ out of it, was I?” Will runs his hand reverently over dark lacquered wood, fingers stopping at the giant, fanciful red ribbon Hannibal had tied around the open lid of the baby grand piano now permanently stationed at the opposite side of the room from his harpsichord, angled perfectly parallel to the other instrument and facing the opposite direction, so players sitting at both instruments would have no trouble looking at each other across the expanse of the study.

“You were quite tired last night,” Hannibal points out. He stands beside Will and leans to mock whisper, “And I asked the movers to be very quiet.” He also slipped a small dose of sedative into the warm milk he prepared so he wouldn’t have to chance Will waking in the night and coming downstairs to stumble upon his final gift too soon, or waking and finding his father gone for a few hours after the movers left. He had to restock their freezers sometime after all. There won’t be Ripper showcases this season since he has to make the most efficient use of his catches for now, taking every viable cut possible from each animal and keeping them in good store between fewer hunts.

“Coming out in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve, I hope you tipped them even better than the tree people.” It’s not a very tactful remark but Hannibal lets that slide and merely dips his head in the affirmative, knowing Will’s bluntness is not ill-meant and simply speaks to his background when money was a pressing concern.

Will’s fingers trail now from the lid to the fallboard, where they trace the Fazioli logo etched in gold. His admiration is not tainted by the unease he often displays around other signs of finery and wealth, so he must not recognize the name and Hannibal has no intention of enlightening him. If he asks about the expense, Hannibal will tell him it is of no relevance as he did not buy the instrument new. Though he would have gladly ordered one made, a few short weeks notice would have been an unreasonable request for such quality craftsmanship, so he had opted instead to have the one from their vacation home in Alberta shipped to a storage facility here in Baltimore the week after Will moved in. He would like to take Will there in the summer, and will order a replacement model for the Alberta house before then.

The boy’s fingers finally alight the keys, merely resting there a moment before delicately pressing a few, just getting a feel for the instrument. He remains standing as he then plays out a short tune, something slow and sweet that Hannibal recognizes as the introduction to a song that is popular this time of year, though he can’t place the name.

“Christmas Time Is Here,” Will says in answer to his father’s unspoken question without looking up. “From _A Charlie Brown Christmas._ It’s one of the first Mom taught me, our first Christmas together.” There, the bittersweetness Hannibal has come to expect, though it is outweighed this time by nostalgia.

Will shifts his attention to the only bookshelf in the room, and Hannibal points him to the specific shelf where the sheet music for the piano starts, kept here even before there was a piano present as he sometimes likes to adapt notations meant for one instrument for use on another.

Fittingly, he comes back with a slim book of more carols and flips through it quietly for a few minutes before selecting the one he wants. Only then does he sit on the bench to play properly, the beginning notes of The First Noël gently breaking through the soft stillness that had fallen once he stopped playing earlier. Hannibal closes his eyes to listen fully.

He opens them when the song ends to find Will looking up at him, face nearly expressionless, merely observant. “Thank you, darling,” he says, and has to clear his throat as his voice appears to have thickened. Will huffs a soft laugh under his breath.

“Other way around, you mean. Seriously. Thanks, Dad.” Will allows him to help him up from the bench and pull him into another hug. This marvelous, remarkable boy who has no idea how much he has given his father already, or of the shared joys yet to come. Soon, he will have to get that fire going and make more cocoa like he promised his son, but for now he gets to hold him close and breathe in his warm relaxed scent, lay a kiss at the top of his hairline, and add one more divine layer to the memory of this day in his mind palace, a simple melody played by long, thin fingers now bunched tightly in the folds of his sweater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The piano](https://pianopricepoint.com/fazioli-f156-grand-piano/#!)
> 
> For those of you who guessed there might be something in the milk last chapter, congratulations, you get a cookie! 🍪 Here, wash it down with a tall glass of milk 💁🥛😉


	13. Ring in the New Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mysterons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slDNOtOQ8oA) by Portishead.

Moreso than the celebrations of last week, New Year’s Eve is laidback and understated, a collection of small distinct moments that add up to a curious and dizzying sum.

“Any resolutions for the coming year?” Will pauses his game to lean back against the loveseat and think. His dad is in an armchair angled toward him, not facing the TV, continuing to sketch.

“Not really. Learn to drive, I guess,” Will says after a moment. He was supposed to start taking Driver’s Ed this semester. “When does school start up again anyway?” Hannibal stops drawing for a moment and looks up at him.

“I haven’t enrolled you in one. I submitted the paperwork to sign you up for homeschooling instead and thought we might start your curriculum on Monday when I return from the office. We can start on driving basics next week as well if you like.” His head tilts, expression shifting subtly in response to the incredulous look his son is giving him. “Is something wrong?”

“Don’t you think that’s something we should have talked about _before_ you just…did it?” Will sputters. “And also, that’s less than a week from today! When were you gonna tell me if I _didn’t_ ask?”

His father flips his sketchbook closed and sets it aside, folding his hands over his knee in what Will considers one of his “therapist” poses. “I apologize, Will, I didn’t realize this decision would distress you. I’m happy to push it back another week if you need more time, though I should tell you there’s nothing to be concerned about. My use of the term ‘curriculum’ might have been misleading. I don’t intend to bombard you all at once with various assignments or hold you to a rigid structure. While there are minimal educational standards the state of Maryland requires you to meet, I have every confidence you will exceed them without issue simply by following your own pace. You’re a very bright boy, Will.”

Will shakes his head, ignoring the compliment. “That isn’t the point. Me having _no idea_ this is even what you were planning for me is the real issue I’m having.”

“If you wanted more direct input on the matter, waiting until the final days of the holiday break to bring the subject up was rather poor planning on your part.” For the first time, Will isn’t just a little perplexed by some of his father’s decision-making or slightly thrown off. He sees red.

“It wasn’t exactly a priority when I first got here,” he says, baring his teeth in a snarl. “You know, between _my mother_ dying, finding out she fucked around on my dad before they got divorced, and wondering just how many other ways my _fucking_ life wants to _fuck me over_ before I’ve even got a goddamned license yet.”

“I am aware,” Hannibal says in an inflectionless voice, with a face that might have been chiseled from cold marble. “That is why I thought homeschool the wiser option over forcing you into ceaseless interactions with strangers in a new school and did not find it necessary to consult your opinion first.”

“Well, you still should have!”

“Alright, Will. Do you _want_ to spend six to eight hours of every weekday in crowded classrooms and cafeterias, in the company of loud-mouthed peers and overworked faculty and administration?”

“Don’t twist this. That’s not what it’s about and you know that because _I just told you!”_

_“William.”_ Hannibal shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing in deeply. When he opens them, his focus shifts to the television, which he has to turn his head fully sideways to look at. Whether it’s the removal of eye contact, the unintentional baring of his father’s neck, or just the fact that he isn’t being yelled at, Will feels the first inkling of shame over his reaction, but for now it stokes his sudden ire hotter. “How far away are you from another location where you can save your progress?”

_“Why?”_ His father turns his head back and merely looks at him. Now Will looks back at the screen this time, annoyed as much with himself as the man in front of him because he’s obviously in trouble now and even still his dad is being _considerate_. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, jaw clenching. “I didn’t do much since the last save anyway.”

“Very well. Then shut off the console and go upstairs to your room. Place your usual distractions out in the hallway outside your door so I know you aren’t using them.”

“Is this because I said _fuck?”_ His father continues to stare him down and Will shifts, uncomfortable until he springs up from his seat in a huff to do as he’s told. Game Boy, Walkman, and a stack of every book he has in his room instead of on a shelf downstairs are set along the wall outside his door. For a second he wants to kick them. For another second, he remembers the sight of flimsy containers of Chinese food stacked outside of another door and wants to throw up. He does neither and shuts himself up in his room. He throws himself onto the bed, facing the foot of it, sprawled on his stomach, arms folded under his chin, and counts the number of butterflies pinned where a mirror should be. He could sleep to pass the time until he’s given permission to leave. He doesn’t try to.

With an imagination like his, he could just as easily daydream, but he doesn’t like the kind of thoughts that usually come when he’s agitated. Downstairs, he can make out the faint echoes of Bach playing throughout the rest of the house. Had he his Walkman, he’d pick a CD by someone like Portishead or The Doors, or someone Hannibal _really_ wouldn’t like, like Nirvana or Iron Maiden, just to drown it out.

His father will finish whatever drawing he was working on and perhaps start on another one before making lunch. He is not the type of parent who would ever send his child to bed without supper or its equivalent, so Will only has to wait until then to find out if he’s an “insist on sitting in stiff awkward silence at the table together” type or a “bring something up for the kid to eat in his room alone” type. The former makes his lip pull up into a sneer, but the possibility of the latter sort of makes him want to cry and punch something, so…more joy to look forward to either way.

Will works on mentally categorizing which species of butterflies he recognizes and everything about them he knows, and from there trying to extrapolate which parts of the world ones he doesn’t know come from based on their wing patterns and sizes. It’s not the first time he’s done this or something similar, when he’s come up to his room alone to think only to discover he doesn’t feel like thinking or doing much of anything else either, or when he’s woken in the middle of the night, trying to make out the different colors and shapes in the dark.

The knock comes eventually, as he knew it would, but Will remains silent, closer to equilibrium than before but not to the point of trusting himself to speak without a _“tone.”_ His dad enters the room anyway after a few seconds of no response. Will doesn’t move as Hannibal sits on the bed beside his prone form. He stiffens a little at the hand that lightly settles at the top of his spine between his shoulder blades, however.

“There is somewhere I go where no one else can follow when I find myself in a similar state of frustration, when I am alone with little better to do than wait, or when I am in a room full of fools and bores and desire to be anywhere else but cannot leave immediately out of obligation.” Will keeps staring ahead, intrigued in spite of himself by this strange placid opening but unwilling to acknowledge it yet. “It is called a mind palace, or sometimes a memory palace, partly mnemonic technique and partly an internal focal point for meditation and gathering one’s thoughts. Would you like to try it?”

Will doesn’t answer, but turns his head to lay his cheek over his hands and look up at the man. “Close your eyes.” Will immediately thinks of disobeying, but that would lead nowhere except back where they started earlier. He closes them. “Think back to a recent memory when you were perfectly contented. Calm, peaceful, fully realized, and completely present in the moment. Where are you?” The answer is embarrassingly quick to come to him, his father’s arms tight around him on Christmas Eve night. “Remember how you felt then. Use all of your senses to take in the scene around you. Not just sight—what did you hear? What were the smells? Take the time to recall every detail that you can.” Sight was minimal anyway, alternating between the back of his closed eyelids and the stitching of Hannibal’s shirt. The goosebumps that rose up on his skin when Will breathed on him. Faint citrusy aftertaste from the Sprite on his tongue. His father’s cologne, something woodsy and floral and a little bit spicy. Feeling tiny and trapped in the most pleasant way, swaying side to side without fear of falling.

Will hums to let him know he has it all memorized. He feels the reassuring weight of his father’s hand on his back with every inhale and exhale. He smells hints of that spice he couldn’t name before and re-catalogs the memory a bit—not just his father’s cologne then, but some of his natural scent beneath. “Now, we’re going to use this memory to build the first room of your palace. It doesn’t have to be where the memory itself took place. These sensory details are your building blocks to create a setting which suits the mood of your memory best. Deep breaths.” Will breathes deep, twice. “Tell me what first comes to mind as the setting takes shape.”

“Water,” Will says. His own voice sounds sort of…floaty. He kind of likes it. It suits this place.

“What kind of water? Is it flowing? Still? Cold?” Will starts to shake his head before realizing he doesn’t feel like it.

“Warm. Mostly still.” Like a bath? No, it’s not _that_ warm, and it’s bigger. “The sea. Calm waves. Not quite dark out yet.” The red sun is out of view though, painting the sky in dusky twilit shades behind violet grey clouds. It gets darker as he watches while never quite dipping into night fully.

“Where is the sea in relation to where you are standing?” His dad’s voice is around him, in the water itself and drifting along behind the clouds like the sun. He read somewhere once that a mother is like God to her children. The same must be true of fathers. He pushes that thought away to focus in on the question being asked.

“M’not standing. I’m floating. On my back.”

“So you’re in the water. The sun is setting.” Dad’s hand glides up and down once over the curve of his spine, dipping all the way to the small of his back before settling again between his shoulders. Will hums again at the feel of it. “Can you see the shore?”

“Kind of. It’s really far.” As he says this, he realizes if he pays attention that he can see the tide crashing against the rocks, naturally a little more turbulent closer to land than this calm expanse of ocean away from reality. The way back out of this space is to focus more over there, he knows instinctively, which is why it’s so distant and blurred for the moment. “Cliffs. There’s a lighthouse up there.” It glows from within like the Christmas lights he admired as they pulled up into their driveway the other night. He smiles. “It’s waiting for me to come back, when I’m ready.”

“Are you ready to come back now, or would you like to float a little longer?” Will doesn’t answer right away. He holds a breath, allowing his body to sink until he’s in up to his neck and only his head is not submerged, then allows it to sink below too, the salt stinging his eyes oddly pleasant, the waters around him darker than the sky above, impossible to see farther than a few feet out in front of him. He stays there for a minute and then slowly allows himself to drift back upwards, focused on the murky light of the lighthouse until his head breaks the surface and he takes in a new breath. He opens his eyes.

Hannibal is looking at him with a soft, fond smile, and moves the hand on Will’s back up into his locks, petting there in just the way he knows Will likes. “Do you feel better?”

Will sits up on his knees, joints popping from how long he’s been lying there, and twists to put his arms around his dad, chest to back, and rest his chin atop the man’s shoulder. “Yeah…I’m sorry I overreacted. You were right anyway. I don’t want to go to a new school if I don’t have to.” Dad’s hand comes up to brush gently over his wrist. After a second, he uses it to lift Will’s hand and kisses the back of it.

“I am sorry as well for causing you unnecessary stress.” They both lean their heads to rest them against one another, cheek to cheek. “Your cliffside bay, is that from memory or purely your own design?” Dad asks him.

“It’s my design. Is that…unusual?”

“There is no wrong way to lay the groundwork of your own palace. My foyer is the Norman Chapel in Palermo. High golden walls covered in intricate mosaics, tall stained glass windows. Severe and beautiful and timeless, with a single reminder of mortality: a skull graven in the floor.”

“You’re not religious,” Will points out. He feels his father’s amusement, how the cheek against his own pulls up into a smile.

“God’s terrific. He dropped a church roof on thirty-four of his worshippers last Wednesday night in Texas, while they sang a Christmas hymn.”

Will pulls his head back enough to look at the man. “That’s awful.”

“In the most archaic sense of the word,” his father agrees pleasantly. Will huffs at the dark humor he sees there. He lays his head back against Hannibal’s. They stay sitting like that for a while.

Will settles in front of the piano after lunch. His dad lounges lengthwise on the sofa in front of the fireplace, one arm over the back of it, head turned where he can see Will’s face, though for the moment while Will plays, his eyes are closed. He likes to listen and watch, no “distractions” of his own on hand, no pretense given that his attention is divided anywhere else.

“What are your resolutions?” Will finally remembers to ask between songs. Hannibal cracks his eyes open, gaze already turned towards him.

“I have no specific goals for the year, except to help you achieve yours.”

“Really?” Will asks dubiously. “There’s _nothing_ you want for yourself by the end of next year?”

“Certainly there is, though I see no reason to set the goal posts back so far in time and reach,” his father winks. Will laughs.

“Well, mine should be met with half of the year still left to go.” He can’t begin to guess what other plans his father may already be devising for his “sweet” sixteen besides taking him to get his license, or rather, he tries not to. “Guess I’ll have to come up with something else to chase it after June.” Which reminds him to also ask, “When’s your birthday?”

“The twentieth.” Will’s mind boggles at the quick simplicity of the answer.

“Of _January?”_ His dad nods. “Crap, there’s no way I can get you anything by then either.” His dad seems unimpressed by the word choice but has yet to actually police his vocabulary, even after the incident earlier which was probably more about his _attitude_ and actually cussing him out as opposed to it slipping out conversationally.

Even if he were to start putting out applications tomorrow and somehow got hired by next week, he probably wouldn’t get his first paycheck in time. Are fifteen-year-olds even allowed to work in Maryland? It’s irrelevant anyway if Dad insists he focus on his education over earning an income, homeschooled or otherwise, as Mom had when he’d suggested he could keep working at the movie theatre past the summer—and _that_ had been despite most of his wages going toward helping with household bills, which the doctor would probably find laughable if he offered.

“Oh dear. I suppose another father-son outing of my choice will have to suffice then.” Will rolls his eyes because _honestly,_ as the resident teen here, he’s supposed to be the one with all the sass, isn’t he?

Later, they return to the den an hour before the live countdown at Times Square is set to start, which of course means Dad is gone again five minutes later to throw together a spread of late-night appetizers to serve at the coffee table. Will picks up his father’s sketchbook while awaiting his return and discovers the first drawing at the top is an unfinished sketch of himself with a controller in hand and a frown of concentration on his face. So that would be why he angled the armchair as he did. Will had guessed this and tried not to think about it too much, preferring to focus on the game rather than fall prey to his own self-consciousness.

He flips to the next page and pauses. This is another study of his own expressions, but rawer and more hurried, quickly outlined from short-term memory whereas the other had been done with his live model still on hand for reference. Had Will really looked like _that_ as he chewed his father out?

The central figure is of him still in the same position on the couch but bodily twisted around to bare his teeth in aggression directly at the viewer. Surrounding this figure are close-ups of just his face at different angles and variations of the same outrage from different moments of their argument. He is uncomfortable looking into his own barbed stare shaded in charcoal grey and flips back to the first page, trying to reconcile the fairly normal kid he sees here with the snarling hellion concealed underneath. It occurs to him now that no one exactly warned Hannibal the teenager he would be taking in might be prone to occasional bouts of unpredictable temper, mostly because he worked hard to hide that part of himself from everyone. At least he didn’t break something this time.

What’s truly interesting is that he can’t detect any of the artist’s anger in the second sketch. Both drawings possess the same quality of fascinated, admiring observation, and maybe even… _pride_.

Dad returns with a tray in hand and Will immediately flips the book shut, guilty like he’s been caught peeking into something private, even though he knows it’s ridiculous to feel that way because the subject is _him_. It’s not even the first time he’s seen the man’s drawings. His father had been happy to let him look through the recreated urban landscapes of Parisian buildings an architect would weep in envy of, the fanciful secret character studies of unwary passers-by, heck, even the clinically observant handful of tastefully posed nudes. (These last he hopes aren’t of anyone he’s expected to meet, though he’s been too afraid to ask. Just the thought of one day having to shake hands with some middle-aged socialite he has indirectly seen naked gives him hives.) Point being, he knows he shouldn’t feel odd about looking at the ones Hannibal left out knowing they’d be back in here later, but he does.

“What did you think of them?” his father asks as he slides the tray onto the table and sits next to him. Will glances down at the closed sketchpad in his hands and shrugs. He has no idea how to explain that looking made him feel like a voyeur peeping in on himself without sounding like some kind of high-strung freak.

Set out on the low table in front of them are crostini with a smoked salmon dip and cranberry baked brie, bacon-wrapped stuffed dates, chocolate dipped orange slices, and a bottle of chilled champagne in an ice bucket with _two_ glasses set out beside it. Will hopes he looks suave and mature when he smirks with a raised eyebrow at this last and not as childishly delighted as he really feels that he gets to participate in this particular tradition. He’s only mildly disappointed when his dad opens the bottle carefully without a cinematic spray of foam or sending the cork sailing across the room, understanding that it’s not a good idea with so many breakable objects and expensive rugs in the house.

“Like your coffee, I’m imposing a two glass limit here,” Dad informs him. The higher coffee limit is their new compromise to Will’s complaint about the decaf and Hannibal’s policy on not overindulging in caffeine. Will considers it a victory hard won, though he’s not given up just yet on his campaign to also be allowed sodas that aren’t just Sprite. He’ll gladly settle for a different type of bubbly beverage for tonight, however.

He is halfway through that second glass already by the time the countdown finally starts, flushed and giggling in high spirits. _Ha,_ pun totally intended.

“Your ears burn a brighter red than the rest of you,” his dad notes amusedly. Will shushes him so he can pay attention to the numbers counting backwards.

The shiny ball on the flagpole drops and the crowd at the scene explodes into cheers. Flaming numbers, balloons, and confetti everywhere! The cameras occasionally pan to zoom in on couples kissing to ring in the year 1998. Will carefully, slowly sets his flute of champagne back on the coaster, then throws himself at his father, feeling devilishly clever and funny when he slings arms around the man’s neck and smacks a loud, sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Happy New Year, Daddy!” He falls back against the couch, victorious and cackling.

Hannibal helps him sit back up and waits with an indulgent smile for Will’s laughter to quieten down. Then he crooks a finger under the boy’s chin, holding him steady with an arm around his waist, and lays a sweet tender kiss first against one cheek, then the other, the second landing a little too close to Will’s mouth so he feels it prickling against the corner of his smiling lips. “Happy New Year, my wonderful boy.”

Will hums another shy giggle and leans in to nuzzle bashfully under his daddy’s ear. Dad pulls him in closer to rest against him more comfortably, turned towards him still with one spindly leg tossed over his father’s knee so he’s practically almost in the man’s lap, one arm still around him while the other hand rests lightly now on his outer thigh. Will’s fingers grip clumsily at Daddy’s shirt.

Eventually, all Will remembers is floating, his head lolling lazily against a shoulder, one arm under his back, the other hooked under his knees, the sway of ocean waves that smell like salt and spice as he’s carried upward to the sunset sky and then laid gently on a gathering pile of fluffy violet clouds, warmly tucked in with more whispered kisses above his brow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote Will is briefly reminded of while constructing his mind palace: "Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children," from William Makepeace Thackeray's novel _Vanity Fair._
> 
> Fun fact, I've not actually read the book myself but stumbled upon the quote while trying to find out if a poignant line of dialogue from the film adaptation of _Silent Hill_ ("Mother is God in the eyes of a child.") was originally sourced elsewhere lol. This was the closest match I found, so who knows, maybe the inspiration came from Thackeray. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	14. Hangover and Hang-Ups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New year, new arc...well, same arc but we've reached the first real "turning point" in their relationship....
> 
> Of course I finally have to link you to our good old fannibal standby, [Bach's Goldberg Variations](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RCAb5ig90rA&t=001s) here in all its hour and fifteen minute long glory. No, you won't hurt my feelings if you don't listen to all of it, or any of it or any of the other songs I link in the beginning notes for that matter. They're just a fun part of the process for me. ;)

A gentle hand shakes him by the shoulder, followed by a headache that throbs at his temples the second he swims toward consciousness. Will groans. It takes a few seconds longer for him to peel his sticky eyes open and realize Hannibal is holding out to him a glass of ice water and a couple of pills in his other hand which he hopes are painkillers. He downs these along with a third of the glass as soon as he’s coherent enough to reach for them.

“Finish it quickly if you can. The sooner you rehydrate, the sooner your head will feel like your own again.” His father’s voice is quieter than normal and the curtains to his window are drawn shut, he notices as he steadily gains alertness. So this is one of those infamous _hangovers_ he’s heard so much about on TV and from braggy classmates at his old school. It sucks, but not half as bad as those sources made it seem, playing it up as though it were an agony akin to slow torture. Maybe it makes a difference how much he drank, or perhaps other people just have lower tolerances for pain and discomfort than he does.

“Time’s’it?” he asks, voice gravelly and slurring the question together as if it’s one word.

“Past eleven. I have breakfast warming for you in the kitchen. I’ll bring it upstairs after you’ve finished your water.” Will doesn’t protest this as an unnecessary indulgence, though it probably is. He just finishes off his water as quickly as he can tolerate drinking it, handing the empty glass back and hauling himself up from the mattress as soon as his father steps away so he can stumble toward the bathroom. He doesn’t do more than wash his hands after he’s done in there, skipping the usual steps of brushing his teeth and running a comb through his curls in a half-hearted attempt to tame them. He should probably get a haircut soon.

Dad’s already back by the time he walks a little steadier back to his room. His pillows are propped against the headboard so he can sit up and Dad turns down the sheets in invitation for Will to climb back into them. How many of those other kids could boast to having a parent who served them breakfast in bed for waking up with a headache they caused themselves? Will slides back under the covers and murmurs gratefully to his father as the man sets a tray over his lap.

“It’s my fault you’re in this state,” his father replies contritely. “I let you have too much far too quickly and without warning you of the potential consequences. Maybe we’ll stick to only one glass next year.”

“S’not that bad.” Realizing Daddy may think he’s just saying that so he can drink more when he’s really not _that_ keen on it, he follows up with, “But yeah, prob’ly should.”

His dad introduces each dish to him as normal like there’s nothing different about today’s breakfast. “Sausage and egg scramble with plain toast, a small side of Jamaican green banana porridge, and half of a grapefruit. Good for replenishing proteins, electrolytes, and antioxidants, such as potassium and vitamin C.” He indicates to the bedside table where a cup of coffee and another tall glass of water also sit within reach. “Caffeine can actually help provide a quick boost in this case, but you need to follow it up with more water to rehydrate, as I mentioned.”

By the time Will finishes eating, he already feels a lot better, and a quick shower afterwards helps to wake him up even more.

“How’s your head?” Dad asks, seated in front of the harpsichord when Will joins him in the study.

“Better. Headache’s still there but it’s dulled a lot.” He lounges on the sofa as his father had done yesterday, facing the opposite direction. “It won’t bother me if you want to keep playing.”

“If you’re sure.” Dad turns his attention back to the instrument and starts up a familiar favorite, the Goldberg Variations by Bach. Will has never listened to them all the way through, since played all together from start to finish the piece is over an hour long, but of the ones he has heard before he thinks the third variation might be his favorite after the regular unadorned aria at the beginning.

His dad plays this aria again after only going four or five variations in, signaling the end of the play session. “I fear if I go on much longer, I’ll tempt you to fall back to sleep.” He smiles over at the boy who admittedly might be getting a little too comfortable in his position on the couch. “I’ll pick up where I’ve left off here tomorrow. For now, some fresh air would do you good.”

“Whaddaya have in mind?” Will asks, forcing himself to sit up since he detects a hint of that tired slurring from earlier creeping back into his voice.

“Nothing extravagant, just a few minutes in the backyard with warm beverages in hand. The cold should return some sharpness to your senses.”

Warmly dressed with another coffee in hand a few minutes later, Will has to agree that this was a good idea, if only because it means he gets to see his dad in the dorkiest looking hat ever, which he calls an ushanka cap as his eyes cut dryly to the snickering boy waiting at the French doors for him.

Their feet crunch through previously pristine white snow as they cross the yard and carefully walk the perimeter of the tall, sturdy fence lined with live bamboo, giving Will a feel for just how unnecessarily large and spectacularly landscaped the backyard truly is. With dormant flowering shrubs and tall Japanese maples, it must be especially beautiful during the warmer months, and even during winter there’s a sort of magic ethereal quality to it, as if by merely stepping outside they’ve entered some other realm where few mortals dare to tread.

He’s often admired it from the glass doors in the dining room but not ventured out more than a few times for a minute or two at most, and never beyond the covered back patio. He tells himself it’s because he never felt like going back upstairs for his coat, wool cap, and gloves, but truthfully it’s because the blanket of pure, even white snow over everything made it seem untouchable somehow, almost forbidden. He knows that’s silly, but even now he feels something like giddy trepidation over the tracks he and Dad are leaving behind, disturbing the blank slate nature has made of their own little world.

“What are you thinking about, mon fils bien-aimé?” Will remembers enough French from school to recognize this is essentially another iteration of “darling boy” or “beloved son.” For some reason it always gets him feeling extra squirmy when Daddy breaks one of these out over the usual plain “darling” now. He gives into temptation to grasp the man’s free gloved hand with his own and shrugs the other shoulder.

“It’ll be nice to eat out here in the springtime,” he says. “We could make it like a little picnic or something.” He doesn’t know if Dad’s really a fan of the outdoors or just likes having a nice view from the patio doors, and glances up shyly over a sip from his rapidly cooling coffee to gauge his reaction.

Dad gives him one of those wide, slow smiles that really feels like it exists just for him. “A blanket laid out on the grass, our music the crickets chirping in the dark, and a warm meal on our tongues as we gaze up at the stars.”

The image this conjures is so vivid and perfect, Will almost gets lost in it for a moment. “Yeah, that sounds ro—really nice,” he says, turning his head away to take a much larger gulp of cold coffee, appalled by the word that nearly slipped out. _Romantic_. He almost said _romantic_. He clears his throat and swipes the gloved hand still holding his half-empty mug over his lips when a tiny dribble of coffee spills out from the corner of his mouth from drinking it too fast. _And that, kids, is what we in the dysfunctional brain biz call a Freudian slip!_ says his inner monologue in a voice not unlike Bozo the Clown’s. Fitting.

He lets go of his father’s hand. “You know, I meant daytime when I suggested it, but that sounds lovely too,” he expounds. “Um, I’m done with my coffee by the way. I mean, mostly. A quick zap in the microwave should make what’s left warm enough to finish off. Not gonna let a bit of wind chill stop me from getting my full two cups worth, ha.” _Oh, for Chrissake, Graham. Shut. Up._

Dad nods toward the doors in an “after you” gesture, amused by Will’s sudden fluster but giving no outward sign that he recognizes the cause of it. He probably just thinks it’s some of Will’s usual awkwardness when he tries to tell a joke that doesn’t quite land right.

“I’m thinking while I’m already dressed appropriately for the weather, I may as well make my next trip to the grocery store now,” he tells Will as they reenter the kitchen.

“Can I come with?” The words are out of his mouth faster than his brain, which is really on a roll today, can point out, _You don’t HAVE to spend every waking moment with him, you know._ Dad blinks at him in surprise, glancing to the ceramic mug Will just set in the microwave. “It’ll keep til we get back.” His father grimaces.

“It won’t taste very good by then anymore, reheated or not.”

“You could just buy me a Coke while we’re out instead then.” His dad laughs rather heartily at this suggestion, which Will interprets to mean, _‘Not likely, kid.’_

By the time they’re on the road, he has himself almost convinced that weird word associations don’t mean anything and Freud is a joke anyway. He’s pretty sure his dad said something to that effect, but _politely,_ during one of their general chats about the state of psychology these days. Will’s a weird kid, but he’s not _that_ kind of weird. He’s too old for an inappropriate crush on one of his parents like he’s heard some little kids go through before they understand that’s not really the type of love they’re feeling. It’s just an odd vocabulary slip-up. It doesn’t mean anything.

A hazy memory resurfaces of last night, smiling soft kisses that tingled and a burning, bright, all-over blush that only heated up more until he had to bury his face in his father’s neck to hide it. Will suddenly becomes very interested in watching the landscape passing by his window.

“I was thinking maybe I should get a job,” he says once he feels he has enough control over his face again. The look his father directs to the road ahead of them is one of consternation.

“If the goal is simply to have your own spending money, we can set up a weekly allowance for you at rates based upon your academic performance and assistance with household chores.”

“Oh, um…sure, if that’s something you want to do, I’d really appreciate it,” Will says. “But, you know, all that time I’m not spending at school now while you’re at work could be used more productively than sitting around the house waiting for you to get back,” he reasons.

“I believe devoting that time to assigned readings and other projects we devise together to make your education more engaging would certainly be productive enough,” his father points out. “Not to mention, any business willing to hire a teenager is unlikely to offer as flexible of a schedule as you’re looking for. They may require you to work shifts while I am home, thus further limiting our time together, most of which would then have to revolve around your schooling and less about our recreation and hobbies.”

Will sighs out through his nose. “Fine, never mind then. It was just a suggestion,” he says, not wanting their time spent out of the house to devolve into another argument two days in a row.

Hannibal frowns, tossing a glance to Will’s resigned expression as they stop at a red light. “Let’s see how these first few weeks go, establish a baseline for what a regular schedule looks like for both of us now that the break is over, and if you feel the same way by that time, we can revisit the discussion then.”

So it’s not an outright “no” after all. Will offers him a tiny smile in thanks.

It figures that “grocery store” in Hannibal-speak wouldn’t resemble the monstrously sized, brightly lit Wal-Marts or Piggly Wigglys that Will is familiar with and instead is more of a series of smaller, inviting specialty shops centralized under one co-op marketplace that caters to a fairly niche clientele. Hannibal takes his hat off upon entering one of them and Will follows suit, stuffing the knit cap into his inner breast pocket and running a quick hand unconsciously through his hair to fluff out where it feels flat.

While picking out produce, the man rhapsodizes about the re-opening of his favorite local farmers’ markets once winter draws to a close, giving his son the impression that during the warmer seasons grocery shopping must be an even bigger Very Serious Affair that potentially can sprawl into an all-day event on some weekends. He is clearly in his element here, which is saying something when his father carries himself with the kind of grace that makes him appear to be in his element everywhere.

Eventually, Will starts to get bored and comes up with a little game. Each time Dad seems to get too distracted with the choices before them, probably busy constructing entire menu plans for the next week or so, knowing him, Will looks around and sneakily grabs the nearest junk food item or other box of ultra-processed, pre-packaged dreck he knows his father would hate and “hides” it in plain sight in their shopping cart, then pretends not to know how it got there when questioned about it a few minutes later.

“You are an exhausting boy,” Dad proclaims the next time he turns around to find five boxes of Oreo-O’s proudly scattered in haphazard fashion over the rest of their items. This time he makes Will help him put everything back.

“You know you love me anyway though,” Will responds cheekily.

“More than anything,” his father tells him with such casual, bald-faced sincerity that Will turns around and pretends to be utterly absorbed in reading the labels on the shelf of products in front of him to hide his embarrassment. Something about the declaration being made in a public space makes it so much harder to cope with.

Dad catches him in the act the last time he tries it, the package of regular Oreos still in his hands when the man encroaches on his space. They’re alone in the aisle when he reaches up and gently tugs on Will’s hair at the back of his head like a cat picking up a kitten by the scruff of its neck, pulling the boy’s head back enough to stare up at him in wide-eyed innocence. “Now, where is the good boy who asked me so nicely if he could join me in doing the shopping today?” Will giggles nervously.

“Um. I, um, I actually want these,” he says, lifting the cookie package up higher almost like a shield. Dad lets his hair go and averts his gaze to the package with narrowed eyes. “I’m pretty sure they’re actually healthier than the cereal version,” he adds, which might have been the wrong thing to say since the disdain he sees there is now shadowed with mild alarm. Dad takes it from him and flips it over to read the ingredients list and nutritional facts on the back. He does not look especially pleased by what he finds there.

“Ok, I know healthier doesn’t mean _healthy,”_ he further explains, “but I miss getting to eat junk once in a while, alright? The snacks you make are _amazing_ but sometimes a guy just wants a handful of greasy potato chips or barely-counts-as-chocolate sandwich cookies, you know?” If ever there was a time to bust out what Mom used to deem his “puppy pout,” it would be now. He tilts his head, eyebrows up, and pushes his bottom lip out ever so subtly. _“Please?”_

His father blinks, not once but a few times, face blank otherwise. He is clearly unprepared for a Will who actually asks him for something, much less one who cranks up the charm at his disposal to make his request. He looks back at the package in his hands and asks, “If I say yes this time, will the obsession with adding carbonated sugary drinks to the grocery list as well finally cease?”

“For now,” Will answers. Hannibal smirks wryly at his son’s honesty, but places the cookies in the basket with their other groceries nonetheless. Will beams up at him. “Thank you, Daddy,” he says sincerely, then freezes up in recognition of the name that slipped out without a trace of irony this time.

“You’re welcome, enfant méchant,” Daddy answers, laying a quick, sweet peck over Will’s brow that belies his humored French. Will stands in place for a moment and awkwardly readjusts his glasses before following the man who continues to meander down the aisle, pushing the cart ahead of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're welcome, _naughty child."_ Accidental headcanon created here that Hannibal is more apt to slip into non-English epithets for Will specifically when he can make them sound very lyrical, whimsical, and even rhyme or slant-rhyme. xD
> 
> Hey Will, good job, nothing sounds smoother and like you’re definitely not suffering an inner crisis than literally saying the word “ha” in place of an actual laugh, amirite?


	15. Absence Makes the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Moonage Daydream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RPUAldgS7Sg) by the late great David Bowie.

The shift in their relationship is subtle and Hannibal must be careful in how he maneuvers along these little changes. They are closer now than they have ever been, so much progress made in the span of a little over a month, but this is also when Will is in most danger of starting to pull away. He has become a touch more self-conscious about the length of their hugs and more prone to dart his gaze away shyly after prolonged seconds of eye contact, Hannibal has noticed. It requires a great deal more fortitude on his own part now not to pull the boy back in closer when he steps back from his hold, to not grab him by the chin and force him to keep looking when his eyes start to slide away. He hasn’t forgotten what a skittish thing his son was when he first entered Hannibal’s life and has no desire to allow them to backslide to that earlier dance by grasping too aggressively to maintain what they already have.

It helps that this newfound reluctance is not enough to make the boy cease leaning into his father’s touch or even to stop seeking it out himself, at the very least, as if he cannot help himself any more than Hannibal could. He hopes that is the case. His own absence from home during the day likely plays a role. Their time together is no longer a constant but something to look forward to when he returns from work in the afternoon.

He is rapidly growing accustomed to being welcomed home with a beatific smile and skinny arms wrapped around his shoulders as soon as his coat is off, however unfortunately brief. His Will had been embarrassed after greeting him this way following their first day apart, likely viewing the impulse as a sign of neediness or weakness, and would have stepped back far sooner than he liked had Hannibal not swiftly returned the gesture, with arms perhaps a bit tighter than he had initially intended. Will had not been the only one affected by the hours of separation.

It would have been unthinkable once to imagine himself so easily undone, far more so to imagine himself _happy_ to be made to feel this way. He calls the house whenever he has a break between appointments to check on Will’s progress with schoolwork and answer any questions which may arise from it that are not so extensive they require waiting until he gets home. He may be guilty of assigning a little more than he initially promised in the wake of his son’s troubling suggestion that he should also seek part-time employment, but the boy has made no complaints so far.

Part of the purpose of his phone calls is to also remind Will he should be taking regular breaks as well. There are no rules against him playing games or practicing piano while Hannibal is gone as long as these are not indulged to the point of neglect of his studies. He could not reliably enforce such rules if he wanted to, and he wants Will to _prefer_ staying home over bringing up the question of employment again, though he is also considering contingencies should Will ask anyway.

He frequently returns home around midday as well for lunch whenever his schedule allows for it. Today he has a cancellation he forgot to mention to Will that allows him to come home an hour earlier, so it is unsurprising when he is not greeted at the door. He finds his son in the study, absorbed with scribbling something into a notebook in his lap and faintly swaying his head to the beat of whatever song is being piped directly into his ears from the headphones nestled in his curls. Hannibal rests just his fingertips over the boy’s shoulder to call his attention.

Will stands abruptly and the notebook slides carelessly to the floor. His hair is tousled from yanking the headphones off as he gets up, the pen in his hand no longer held like a delicate instrument but brandished like a shiv ready to swing upward as he spins around to face the intrusion, and that beautiful snarl Hannibal has glimpsed only once before is bared to him again but more ferociously than the last time, with true deadly intent behind his boy’s expression and stance that nearly borders on feral.

Hannibal learns that it is, in fact, possible to fall in love all over again with the same perfect being twice. His face goes completely blank as it often must when he finds himself unable to summon up an appropriate reaction.

_“Daddy,”_ his son breathes out, face slackening and eyes going wider in shocked recognition. The pen-wielding arm lowers and he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing in an attractive motion that Hannibal wants to trail after with his tongue. “Jesus Christ, don’t do that! I could have _hurt_ you,” he says, making it sound like an accusation.

“I am sorry, love. It was a thoughtless mistake. I’ll try not to surprise you like that again.” He truly hadn’t expected this reaction. The last time he had come up behind Will silently, during that pancake breakfast on Christmas Eve, the boy had startled but not this badly. He didn’t _touch_ the boy last time, however. He had simply greeted him from the open entryway, several feet back. Will had recognized his voice and known who was behind him before his surprise had a chance to heighten into genuine alarm.

Will drops the pen unceremoniously to a side table, uncaring when it rolls off anyway, and comes around the couch to where his father stands, snaking shaky arms around him and squeezing tighter than the familiar greeting usually warrants, breathing in his father’s scent with panting breaths as if to reassure himself. Hannibal rubs soothingly over his back, secretly delighted to realize that despite his fierceness, the boy’s breath had been quite steady as he readied himself for an attack. It is only coming down from his adrenaline high and recognizing what he _might_ have done to his own father that makes him shiver now in Hannibal’s arms.

“We should discuss what caused this response, not now, but when you’re ready to talk about it,” he points out softly. Will pulls back only enough to gaze up at his father’s face.

“I’ll never be ready,” he says, almost sullen. “And you know what caused it.” He sighs, apparently deciding now is the time for this anyway, and shuffles back to the other side of the sofa to retrieve his fallen supplies and place everything on a table out of the way. They sit together, Hannibal relaxed and open in his posture in invitation which Will takes him up on, leaning in at a slant to tuck his head under his father’s chin, his top half lying against him while the lower remains on the couch cushions.

It is a peculiar, awkward position that cannot be entirely comfortable for the boy and does not allow Hannibal to see his son’s face, but he accepts that this is part of whatever compromise Will is constantly making within himself now to remain close but not _too_ close, and that now is not the time to gently nudge these newly formed boundaries. It is even likely the inability to properly look at each other is an intentional part of this design. Hannibal bears it for now with arms around his son to hold him steady there so Will doesn’t have to hold his own weight up to keep from sliding down further. Though it is not lost on him that with just a bit of adjusting and sliding, he could have his child’s head in his lap instead and gaze freely down into his eyes while soothingly petting his hair. Maybe Will can be convinced of it after he’s finished saying his piece.

For the first time, Will relays to him the events of that day, matter of fact and succinct in his wording. Only the unconscious dig of his fingernails into the flesh around Hannibal’s knee gives him away. Hannibal is struck by pride and awe in how capably this sweet-tempered creature in his arms defended himself yet doesn’t appear to recognize how extraordinary he is. He is also viscerally aware for perhaps the first time just how easily it could have all gone terribly wrong in seconds. Will could have lived and died at the tender age of fifteen and Hannibal would have carried on with his own life without ever knowing of his existence. He might have learned of it only afterward in much the same manner, through a simple phone call to his office from a nameless bureaucrat offering condolences instead of custody. His hold around Will tightens.

“I wanted to kill him.” This whispered confession draws him back in and away from dangerous, unproductive thoughts. Will is here, fierce and vibrant and alive. “I wanted it so bad. If I’d just been a little faster picking up the knife…” The boy shudders, releasing a shaky breath. He sits up then so he can look at his father, though his eyes go no further up than his chin. “Does that make me a monster?”

“No, darling.” Hannibal takes hold of his face with both hands, fingertips grazing the hair behind his ears. “I know what monsters are. You are nothing like one. You are brave, and strong, and loyal, and what you wished for was not wrong.” He swipes away a gorgeous fat tear that escapes one of his son’s stunned, widened eyes with his thumb. “Take comfort in the knowledge that the one who caused you this pain is incarcerated now, to be poked, prodded, and studied for the rest of his short miserable existence. He cannot hurt you again, nor will anyone else under my watch.” He pecks a soft kiss directly on the tip of his son’s nose. “I’m going to protect you.”

The tears come a little harder and Hannibal pulls his son in close again, encouraging him to lean almost into his lap to be held through it. The crying doesn’t last for long but Will continues to cling anyway, even as he mumbles into the collar of his father’s shirt, “I don’t wanna need protecting.”

“You’ll have it nonetheless,” Hannibal says. “And if you like, we can also begin including some general self-defense techniques in your weekly lesson plans.”

Will pulls back to look at him once again. “You know how to fight?”

“I know enough of a few various styles of fighting to be able to teach you a few things.” He offers later after a light lunch to cancel the rest of his appointments and stay home, but Will insists he’ll be fine and that his father save such drastic action for a “real” family emergency. He makes certain to assure his son that _any_ time he needs his father for any reason is a valid emergency, but agrees to go back to work when the boy reiterates that he’ll be alright on his own until he returns again in the evening. He calls as usual after his next afternoon appointment, and Will’s voice does sound truly equanimous as they converse. He is greeted at the door as normal when he finally comes home to stay for the evening.

Later that night, he waits until long after Will has gone to bed to enter his room, his attentiveness proven justified by how restlessly the boy sleeps. More than once he has come in to find Will in the grips of a nightmare, whether drawn inside by an unconscious cry in the dark or simple unprompted desire to check on him, the scent of anxious, fear-stained sweat pungent in the room as his boy thrashes about fitfully. This is the first nightmare in a while, however. Usually Hannibal will murmur words of comfort in French or Italian and run soothing hands over his brow and twitching limbs until his movements fall lax again and his wrinkled frown smooths away, then quietly leave once he’s certain the terrors won’t start right back up again, never giving any indication come morning that he had been there or knew anything of the visions that had plagued Will in the night.

Tonight, these methods are proving ineffectual, unfortunate but understandable given how close the traumatic experience which brought him to Hannibal had been to the forefront of Will’s thoughts earlier during his waking hours. Without hesitation, he gently shakes Will awake, prepared for the immediate fight response this triggers and easily able to evade the attempts to hit him and push him away by taking hold of the boy’s wrists. “It’s only me again, darling. It’s your daddy,” he murmurs, repeating himself a few times until understanding breaks through and Will slumps tiredly against him in relief and recognition again.

Will is unabashed this time about squeezing and clinging to him as closely as possible, whatever blood-soaked imaginings have haunted him enough to drive inhibitions away. He whines when Hannibal shifts, thinking his daddy means to pull away now when that is the furthest thing from Hannibal’s mind. Instead he pulls the covers back and adjusts the boy limpet in his arms to make room for them to lay side by side one another in the cozy queen-sized bed.

Will settles against him without protest and falls back to sleep soon after, an arm slung over his father’s chest while his rhythmic breaths tickle the nape of the man’s neck. Hannibal breathes him in, the acidic sharpness of fear gradually fading into Will’s regular warm, sleepy scent, and follows him into slumber.

He wakes many hours later, fingers of sunlight just peeking in through gaps in the curtains, and continues to lie there patient and comfortable as his boy slowly stirs half an hour later. Will stretches lazily against him, not quite coherent yet, and rolls his hips instinctively against his father’s thigh. Hannibal swallows in response to the hardness rubbing against his clothed leg and the hissed, indrawn breath that follows. Will does this once more and then freezes, suddenly alert. He scoots away quickly, lower half first, and sits up.

Hannibal chooses then to blink and stretch as if just waking up himself, to spare his son the embarrassment of acknowledgment and himself the temptation to slink lower beneath the blankets and mouth wetly over the boy’s still clothed morning erection. _“Mm,_ good morning, Will,” he greets roughly.

“Morning,” Will responds without looking at him. “I’m just gonna…” He turns in such a fashion as to hide his front from the man as he clambers awkwardly from the bed and all but dashes for the door. Hannibal smiles privately to himself and admires the view of Will’s backside, his baggy T-shirt not quite large enough to hide the shapely rear accentuated by low-slung pajama pants which fit tighter than normal because of its tented front, which sadly must remain in the realm of his imagination for now. So hurried is the boy that he neglects to shut the bedroom door behind him.

Hannibal remains where he is and listens to the bathroom door shut, followed seconds later by the spray of the shower coming on. He lays back and trails lazy fingers over his own clothed erection before lowering the waistband of his pants under cover of the blankets and taking himself in hand. He strokes lightly, mindful that Will’s sense of smell, while perhaps not quite as acute as his own, is nonetheless sensitive enough that he would be able to tell if his father brought himself to completion in his bed. He stops when the first droplet of pre-ejaculate beads at the tip, gathering it up carefully with his thumb. He sits up and smears the clear fluid over Will’s pillow before fluffing it and turning it over, then stands to make the boy’s bed for him.

He returns to his own room and undresses, padding barefooted into the ensuite to start his own shower. Will’s is likely cold to encourage his state of arousal to dissipate on its own, but his own is quite warm. He takes himself in hand again and pictures his beloved angel, naked and wet, shivering, hair plastered to his forehead as goosepimples prickle over his skin. He does not imagine them in the shower together. Hannibal’s self-control is superb but he is still only human. Were he to fantasize explicitly about any of what he longs to do to the boy’s nubile young body, his desire to see it made reality would become overwhelming. Far safer to bring himself off thinking only of how that pert bottom must have clenched as the initial burst of cold water against Will’s chest would have shocked him more awake.

Hannibal groans as he spends his release and watches it swirl down the drain, still careful not to think about the specifics of where along the flushed surface of creamy pale flesh he would prefer to paint his seed. He hums, dragging his fist once more over his over-sensitized dick, and finishes washing himself as normal. He mustn’t keep his son waiting too long for his breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😏🍆💦💦💦


	16. Grow Fonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Happy House](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amR6-neQBPE) by Siouxsie and the Banshees.

The sun peeks out from behind the clouds, bright but not so bright that it hurts his eyes, warm like the spring but not the sweltering heat of summer just yet. He breathes deep, contented, smells the dew on the grass and the lilacs stirring on the breeze, a riot of every possible color. There is little left of their sandwiches now except for crumbs and what’s left of the lemonade sweats in its half-empty pitcher. He could use another drink maybe, he thinks, but the pitcher is too far away, on the opposite corner of the blanket from where he’s sitting and he’s feeling far too lazy to reach over for it at this moment.

Dad looks at him expectantly, eager eyed and twitching with so much excitement where he sits that Will has to laugh, especially when Mom scoots closer and gives him the same look over Dad’s shoulder. “Alright, you two, you can go play now,” he finally capitulates.

No sooner are the words out of his mouth than the two of them both take off like a shot, their bare feet making rustling, wet sounds in the grass. Eleanor taps Levi on the shoulder first with a giddy, girlish, _“You’re it!”_ before sprinting ahead, her summery floral-printed dress flapping behind her. Will leans back on his elbows and watches them chase each other with an easy smile.

“Is this spot taken?” Will lets his head fall back to look up at Daddy behind him, his view of the man sort of upside down but perfect for soaking up his fond, carefree expression. He’s dressed down in deference to the warmth of spring as well, his sleeves rolled up and shirt left unbuttoned to reveal his hairy chest and stomach. Will sits up and scoots forward to give him room. Daddy sits directly behind him, knees bracketed around Will’s hips, breath stirring the little hairs at the back of his neck, and starts feeding him leftover hors d'oeuvres by hand. Will groans his pleasure and leans back against his father’s bared chest.

“They seem better off now,” Hannibal points out. Will hums uncertainly, unable to answer as another morsel is brought to his lips. Eleanor is chasing Levi now, who seems to have gotten himself rather high up a nearby tree. Will worries that he might take a tumble and break his neck, and starts to get up to go help him down, but a staying hand on his belly holds him in place. He’s never felt so full in his life but he can’t stop eating as Hannibal slides another mouthful into him, fingertips brushing over his gums and lingering over the tip of his tongue.

There’s a loud crash from in front of them, a sound like several branches snapping at once. Will isn’t looking because Daddy turns his head back to swipe a few stray crumbs away from Will’s mouth with his thumb. When he does look back, Eleanor is still playing out in the meadow by herself, now spinning herself ’round and ’round in dizzying circles and laughing more wildly. The laughs are starting to sound like sobs. The wind is a bit chillier now, the sky more overcast. It might rain soon.

“Daddy…” Will starts to say, wondering if they should head back and take shelter inside. Hannibal shushes him and brings another hors d’oeuvre to his mouth. Will gazes downward to look at this one. A ripe, freshly cut tomato spiraled into a rose atop a canapé generously smeared with goat’s cheese.

Eleanor’s movements begin to stutter and slow down, her breathing growing heavy as she clutches at her neck. Red drips like rich sauce through the gaps in her fingers, and red dribbles from the corner of Will’s mouth too as he bites down into the tomato’s flesh. Daddy leans forward to catch it on his tongue before it drips from Will’s chin, slowly dragging his bottom lip up over his cheek after, tongue peeking out just enough to lick up the rest, darting rapidly into the corner of Will’s mouth like a snake’s where the drip started.

Will moans and burrows back against the man as much as he’s able. Eleanor’s quiet gurgling is forgotten in the rustle of leaves flying loose from the trees around them as the wind picks up faster. Daddy turns his head again to make eye contact, his own eyes darkened and hooded as he pulls his thumb over Will’s mouth again and gently pries it open. Will obediently leaves it open as his daddy brings another blood rose to him, their faces close enough to feel each other’s breath ghost across them as he lays the flower gently onto Will’s tongue and leaves his thumb and index finger there, inside.

“For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you,” his father whispers lovingly. “O sane and sacred death.” Will’s eyes flutter, nearly drifting shut. _“Bite,”_ his father desperately commands.

Will bites down hard.

Will bites back a strange moan as he shifts and shudders under the blanket. His eyes flutter open in the dark. He’s aware first of fresh sweat sticking him to the sheets and the shirt to his back. Then it gradually dawns on him that it’s not only the sweat making him feel wet and sticky. He wipes a hand over his tired eyes and groans.

He sits up, throwing the covers back and leaving them open to air dry the faint dampness there. He’ll need to change them. First, he peels off his wet shirt and drops it to the floor, then shimmies out of his ruined pajama pants and uses a dry patch of the fabric to awkwardly wipe up any lingering mess around his crotch. Putting on a different pair of flannel pants, he pads as quietly to the bathroom as he can with soiled clothes in hand. The shower might wake Hannibal, so he wets them in the fortunately deep and wide bathroom sink and scrubs them out as best he can, then pulls his bottoms off and dampens a washcloth to run over his skin as well. Feeling as clean and refreshed as he’s going to get without disturbing the man’s sleep, he returns to his room to strip the mattress and carries all of his stained linens downstairs to the laundry room.

Bedsheets and pajamas fully replaced, he wriggles back into bed and stares up at the ceiling, wide awake. Without any more practical distractions, there’s nothing to keep his thoughts from settling around the embarrassing nightmare that grew less scary over time and more… _sensual._ Resigned to not being able to sleep for awhile, possibly for the rest of the night, he switches the bedside lamp on and pulls his Game Boy out of the drawer. He can at least distract himself again with the petty frustration of crawling back through the beginning of the dungeon he started last time.

He ends up getting through much more of the game than that, playing for hours until the indicator light goes so dim he gets paranoid the device will shut itself off soon and hurriedly saves before setting it aside. He’s more tired than he realized and no longer obsessing over the content of his dreams, and so falls back to sleep soon afterwards.

The knock to come downstairs for breakfast comes sooner than he would like and he groans again in response to it, tempted to bury his head under the pillow and pretend he hadn’t heard. The door opens as always anyway and Hannibal walks in, his eyes softened with fond amusement as he looks from the grumpy, groggy boy still in bed to the Game Boy carelessly left out on the nightstand instead of neatly tucked back into the drawer. “I would offer chastisement for staying up too late, but the direct consequence of your actions appears to be punishment enough already.” Will grumbles and stubbornly remains where he is, making no move to get up anytime soon. “You have to get up now, darling. The tarte tatin is nearly ready to be taken from the oven.”

He would rather continue sleeping than indulge in some fancy French delicacy this morning and makes this clear by burrowing deeper into the blankets. He curls tighter into himself to retain some warmth when Dad pulls the covers back, but doesn’t know how to react except with a startled squeak when he is suddenly bodily lifted out of the bed and carried to the door. “O- _o-_ ok, I’m up. _I’m up!_ You can put me down now.”

“I can,” Daddy agrees. “But I don’t think I will. You’re far too cute when you’re flustered.” Will doesn’t know what to do with this information either, but stops flailing and holds on when his father starts to carry him down the stairs so he doesn’t knock them both off-balance and send them tumbling.

He’s finally lowered to his feet and allowed to bear his own weight again once they enter the kitchen. Daddy busies himself with pouring both of their coffees and fixing last-minute preparations for breakfast, so Will seats himself on one of the island barstools. The aroma of baking apples and cinnamon is heavy in the room, leading him to guess that a _tarte tatin_ must be like the French version of an apple pie. He drums his fingers on the countertop, eyes darting around the room.

“Is there a junk drawer in here somewhere?” he asks. Dad looks genuinely puzzled by the question, so Will elaborates. “I need fresh batteries for my Game Boy.”

“There are some stored in the utility closet in the laundry room. There are no cabinets here, however, which serve as storage for _junk,_ as you say.” Will smirks at the tone of mild affront. He slides off the stool and turns to leave.

Arms suddenly wrap around him from behind. “Where do you think you’re going, young man?”

“To—” Will cuts off in surprised, breathless laughter as the hold keeping him in place turns unexpectedly into a tickle ambush. “To, to get the ba— _ah!_ The batteries! Dad, _sssssstop!”_

“That can wait. Breakfast is nearly ready.” His father’s voice is the epitome of cool, collected control as his fingers continue to dance over Will’s torso and under his arms in a pattern that leaves him gasping.

“It, it’ll just take a minute!” he giggles, hardly recognizing his own voice.

“If you keep me waiting for my meal, boy, I may just decide I want a Will Tatin instead.” His daddy punctuates this playful threat with a sharp nip over the boy’s blushing red ear. Will gasps again and stiffens in his father’s arms, shivering.

“D- _D-Daddy…”_ The oven timer goes off and Daddy pecks a quick, soothing kiss over the spot he bit before releasing him and stepping away to retrieve the apple tart. Will stands motionless in place, his red face turned away from the man, and catches his breath with a hand over his chest.

The tarte tatin is, as he guessed, sort of like an open-faced apple pie, served at the table with dollops of vanilla and bourbon-infused whipped cream, and just the right ratio of tartness to sweetness so it doesn’t overwhelm as most desserts for breakfast would. He wonders vaguely if there is a special occasion he is unaware of. Will sips at his coffee, unusually quiet and pensive as they eat.

“Don’t forget we have your fitting today after I return home from work,” Daddy reminds him. “The tailor was gracious enough to squeeze our appointment in at the last minute. It may be wise to catch up on some of your lost rest after I leave so you can be refreshed and alert for it.” Will nods agreeably and takes another bite.

Alone once Daddy leaves for work, he returns to bed with the book of Walt Whitman poetry he was reading yesterday and a reference guide on the language of flowers so he can review them a little, theoretically for an essay he might write on the subject later, before following doctor’s orders by allowing himself to drift off again.

*

_“Shit!”_ Will taps on the brake a little harder than necessary, his breathing ragged and stressed as he unceremoniously puts the car into park and removes his hands from the wheel, leaning back to calm himself down. They are not in the way of traffic and the parking lot is sparsely populated at this time of day in any case, so Hannibal allows him a few minutes to regain his composure and confidence.

“There is still more than enough room to correct the angle,” he observes, using the rear-view mirror to eye the gap between the back fender and the lamppost Will had panicked about nearly hitting despite not truly being in danger of that just yet. The boy has been somewhat aloof and on edge since this morning and is now being overcautious to compensate. Hannibal had thought it a sound enough idea to arrive early and allow Will to practice driving in the lot before their appointment, but his son may be too distracted to focus and enjoy this diversion after all.

Or perhaps Hannibal is simply reading too much into Will’s natural nervousness at being behind the wheel for the first time. The boy is much slower about backing out of the space than a more experienced driver, but he does manage it without incident once he’s taken his moment to relax, and makes a few more practice laps around the lot before pulling into another space, this one notably nowhere near any treacherous lampposts. He looks more confident and quietly pleased with his performance, which Hannibal reinforces by offering due praise as well.

“Don’t think I’m anywhere _near_ ready to take this on actual roads yet though,” Will mutters, fidgeting with his glasses.

“We may want to wait until the spring thaw to graduate up to that step in any case. Icy roads are not a good starting course for a beginner.”

Will’s apathy returns during the fitting, but he had suspected that might be the case. Truthfully, Will is about as eager to be prodded and poked for measurements as Hannibal is to allow someone else to do it. Alas, even his keen eyes and deft hands are no match for Madama Bianchi’s in this field. She has regularly seen to most of his tailoring needs over the years and is a consummate professional. He reminds himself of this as Will’s apathy turns to discomfort with holding still while a stranger to him hovers in his personal space and Madama’s efficient hands flit about from elbow to inseam.

With assurances from Bianchi that Will’s tuxedo will be ready before the twentieth with two more suits to come in the following weeks, he guides them back to the car and opens the passenger door for Will.

“There is an excellent little gelato shop just around the corner from here,” he points out as he starts up the vehicle and turns up the heater. Will’s smile is a tiny thing after what his father just asked him to endure, but sincere.

“Ice cream in winter, huh? You’ve really got a sweet tooth today, don’t ya?” Hannibal resists making the terribly obvious pun about his earlier taste of something _sweet,_ recognizing it may not go over well after Will’s conflicted attitude regarding the events of this morning.

Such a cruel taste it had been, following in the wake of what Will had tried to hide from him in the washer. How terribly bold that incomparable discovery had made him. Even more so when he could still detect lingering traces of earlier arousal and spilled seed on Will’s skin when he stood close, when he held the boy in his arms and carried him into the kitchen.

Not for the first time in these last weeks, Hannibal considers the possibility that he may be going faintly mad, his iron resolve slowly crumbling as temptation himself sits mere inches away, slumbers unaware in the next room, smiles and asks insightful questions about his homework, blushes and takes requests when practicing piano and says _“Daddy”_ so perfectly and prettily that Hannibal wants to taste the word on his tongue.

They are so close to being everything he wants them to be together that his patience frays a little more each day, a truly dangerous prospect. It is vital that Will be the one who takes initiative to shift their dynamic once again or they risk losing what has already been carefully cultivated between them. It would not be _impossible_ to repair, but he does not wish to take the arduous, longer path of most resistance and damage control if it can be avoided. His boy deserves far, far better, _the best,_ and his daddy intends to give him nothing less than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death.”_ From Walt Whitman’s [When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45480/when-lilacs-last-in-the-dooryard-bloomd)
> 
> Lilacs also have some rather interesting meanings, as their early bloom times mean they represent the coming of spring and renewal. They can also symbolize a first love. 💐👉👈🥺😏😘


	17. Birthday Wishes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sour Times](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VoSoZyiHZ6o) by Portishead.

Hannibal hands his keys off to the valet and guides Will to the front entrance with a steadying hand at his back. His darling cuts a fine figure in his new tuxedo, for all that the boy had complained of feeling like “a little kid playing at dress-up,” and his hair has been trimmed back just enough to allow for a little styling product to shape it into something elegant and befitting a production by Puccini. Truthfully, he rather admires the way Will’s curls fall naturally when untamed, loose and wild and silently begging to be messed up further, but tonight’s occasion had allowed him an excuse to sink his hands in and play under the guise of styling them. Nor could he resist allowing one to “escape” and fall loose to the side of Will’s forehead in an artful tease. An understated form of masochism must have guided his hand.

They arrive in time to find their seats, amid curious eyes upon them which know not to overcrowd and will wait patiently for their introductions, or approach humbly in twos and threes to make those introductions themselves at intermission. Will adjusts his glasses in a manner which allows him to observe their onlookers in kind without notice, as much a tactical move as it is a nervous one, his father suspects. “Everyone’s looking at us,” the boy mutters, barely moving his lips.

_No, my love, they’re all looking at you, and know not the privilege of their sight._ Hannibal knows not to voice this thought aloud when Will is already feeling self-conscious as it is. Most of them clearly have no idea what to make of his “date” for the evening, though some will have certainly formed opinions already.

Intermission comes with the conclusion of the first act and the long, sweeping love duet of Butterfly and Pinkerton. Will appears lost in his own head in the wake of their riveting, sensual performance, so Hannibal gently steers him into the lobby with a hand on his arm. He would love nothing more than to simply sink into the immediate memory of the song along with his son, but alas, there are social mores to be followed.

Will returns to himself as Hannibal pulls him in the direction of the first of his acquaintances he wishes to introduce. Frances Komeda is currently chatting with Marlene Richardson, but both women turn to them with welcoming smiles as they approach.

“Hannibal, it is so good to see you again,” says Mrs. Komeda. “And with a plus one, such a rarity for you. Frances Komeda,” she says, offering her hand as she shifts seamlessly into introducing herself. Hannibal notes the tiny widening of his son’s eyes as he grasps her hand, releasing it quickly after an uncertain handshake, with no small amount of amusement. “And who might you be, dear?”

“More importantly, would this fine young gentleman be the reason for your prolonged absence, doctor?” Mrs. Richardson asks. “I suppose we can hardly blame you now for canceling on the rest of us if this has been the source of your distraction.” Whereas Komeda’s tone had been one of mere friendly curiosity, Richardson’s is throaty and rich with insinuation. Hannibal is not the only one who catches it. Mrs. Komeda raises her eyebrows delicately and Will’s pale skin flushes over as he stares at a spot between the two women’s shoulders now.

“You would be quite right in your assessment, Mrs. Richardson,” Hannibal leans forward to answer playfully. “This is my son, Will Graham,” he introduces, laying a proprietary and reassuring hand at the back of Will’s shoulder. “He’ll be sixteen this summer.” Mrs. Richardson pales considerably at the second statement and looks positively green by the third. Komeda takes a sip from her glass of wine that does not fully hide her satisfied smirk. Perhaps that will be enough to teach Marlene Richardson not to make such bold assumptions publicly without knowing the ages or family trees of the involved parties. He files away the indecent gleam in her eye as she’d said “ _fine_ young gentleman” nonetheless.

“Will… _Graham?”_ she says, unknowingly digging herself a deeper hole as she unsubtly tries to deflect her own embarrassment by calling attention to the discrepancy.

“Correct. Will took his mother’s name at the time of his birth as she and I were not married,” he replies without shame. “You are two for two today, Mrs. Richardson.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Will,” Frances says warmly. “Is this your first opera?” Will nods, but is either too shy or too discomfited by Mrs. Richardson’s remarks to speak.

“Will is quite the fan of your work, Frances. I could hardly convince him to put your latest book down over the holidays.” Will fidgets and shoots his father a dirty look, now embarrassed but manageably so.

“Truly? Well, I’m flattered and even more delighted now to make your acquaintance, dear. It’s rare to meet someone else at these functions who shares my interest in the macabre.”

“Oh, is that Mr. Vaughner?” Mrs. Richardson clears her throat. “Please, you’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Komeda, Dr. Lecter, and, ah, pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graham,” she says, swiftly dismissing herself from a conversation where it has become increasingly apparent she is the awkward fourth wheel.

“Ha, that old gossip just wants a head start on spreading the word first,” Mrs. Komeda remarks after she goes.

“Perhaps you should one-up her by relaying an additional detail of your own,” Hannibal tells her, knowing he has her interest piqued when she turns back to him with a sly look. Frances Komeda is known to be quite the gossip herself, but one with the sterling reputation of sticking only to facts free of baseless speculation and of never spreading information shared with her in confidence. “Will and I have discussed it and feel that the first week in February would be the perfect time to host another dinner party. You can expect your invitation in the mail a few days from now.”

“Well, that is good news worth sharing,” she agrees. “If you’ll excuse me as well then, dears, I suppose I’d best get to work.” She winks in parting and takes her leave far more gracefully than her previous conversation partner had.

Will continues to be very still, very quiet, and very much removed from his surroundings to focus inward. Hannibal guides him away from the main hall, casually lifting the velvet rope to one of the cordoned off areas of the building and ushering him inside.

There is already another couple there, flushed with wine and ardor, necking inelegantly in a private alcove in the otherwise empty corridor. Hannibal clears his throat politely and the pair spring apart. The man is clearly a member of the catering service based upon his garb, the woman a guest in attendance. There is a wedding ring upon her finger while the man’s left hand is bare. Hannibal cares not a whit about these details and is only gratified that they waste none of his or his son’s time in trying to explain away their actions, merely ducking away guiltily and giddily down another unused hallway further off, the soft click of a door shutting signaling that they have gone somewhere more truly private and appropriate for their little rendezvous. He silently wishes them both a pleasurable and satisfying evening.

“Huh.” Will is still staring off down the darkened corridor they just fled by, a bit of pink creeping over his features as well. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand, twisting his head with the motion so that he’s looking up at his father through his long eyelashes when he asks, _“Why_ …are we here?” There is a lilt to his question that makes Hannibal long to press him against the wall of the only recently vacated alcove.

He leans back against a nearby pillar, hands going into his trouser pockets, the better to prevent himself from leaning into the boy’s space and forcibly keep his hands to himself. “To allow you a breather after an uncomfortable situation. Which you did very well in, I might add.”

Will drops the hand from his neck to dangle gracelessly at his side with a roll of his eyes and a sigh. “Please don’t lie to me. That was awful back there. I couldn’t utter a word.”

“Shyness holds its own sort of charm and flattery. If you’re worried about the sort of impression you’ll make on others, don’t.”

Will snorts. “Yeah, easy for you to say. Have you ever been anything less than perfect a day in your life?”

“Never,” Hannibal answers gamely with a smirk. “Have you?”

Will rolls his eyes again but clutches a hand to his chest with delicately exaggerated aplomb and shakes his head, his soft, breathy, _“No,”_ barely audible as it escapes past the thin curl of his smile.

“Of course not. Nothing about us to be humble about.” The lights flicker twice out in the main hall in signal to all attendees to return to their seats. “Are you ready to head back in there?” Will nods, and the two of them make their way back into the theater.

Their eyes are both wet later as Madama Butterfly falls and the curtains draw closed, but on Will’s face the effect is enhanced by a fuming, heartbroken, bitter scowl. Catching the boy’s eye in silent questioning, his son angrily whispers amid thunderous applause, “Why would she do that? How could she just leave her kid behind and trust that bastard to be a better father than he was a husband?”

“Would you like to go home?” At Will’s nod, they take their leave during final bows, something which Hannibal would never do under ordinary circumstances, but needs must if they are to avoid being trapped by social obligation to stay and make small talk with more of his acquaintances.

_“Don’t,_ by the way,” his son bossily orders, furiously wiping his eyes after buckling himself in.

“Don’t what?” he asks, though he can easily guess.

“Don’t draw comparisons where there aren’t any. I’m mad because I didn’t like that ending. Don’t make it out to be something _personal_ about the tragic almost-orphan.”

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” Hannibal allows, drawing a tiny smirk from his boy again. He obediently keeps silent about his own opinions on the matter.

They drive in silence for a few minutes before his son also adds, “I’m sorry I ruined the evening, and on your birthday no less.”

“You have done nothing of the sort. I have wished many times to leave at the end of an opera and reflect upon how it affected me in solitude rather than dissect it on a technical level and blandly move on to a boring topic afterwards with my peers. A crying child is an excellent excuse to avoid all that.” This last remark earns him an honest laugh.

“Some first impression I must have made on everybody who saw.”

“What did I say about worrying about first impressions?”

“Don’t,” Will repeats with another smile.

Hannibal asks how Will would feel about another slice of birthday cake with coffee—decaf, of course, at this hour—as they hang up their coats in the foyer closet. The boy agrees and heads upstairs first to change into more comfortable clothing while Hannibal goes to the kitchen.

Later, as he returns upstairs as well to change his own attire and go to bed, he finds something unexpected on his pillow. His son must have found his art supplies for hand-crafted decorations in the utility closet when he went to fetch batteries the other day. He picks up the carefully folded and cut crepe paper lilac to admire it better in the overhead light. It smells of its namesake flower, meaning Will must have also entered his ensuite on a day he was at work to borrow a droplet of essential oil from his cabinet and been careful not to spill a second drop.

His eyes grow wet again as he cradles the paper flower delicately in his hands. He sets it on his nightstand and enjoys the faint lingering scent on his pillow as he turns in for the night.

*

Daddy’s surprise birthday present is hanging from a magnetic brass clip on the otherwise pristine and uncluttered metallic surface of the fridge door when Will comes downstairs for breakfast. He smiles down at the countertop, pleased and embarrassed by the sight of it and his father’s warm gratitude when he walks in.

That feeling carries him through the rest of the day after his dad leaves for work. He works on his Whitman essay, writing about the poet’s long elegy for Lincoln, how the way he writes about him feels less like the somber respect of a loyal citizen for his country’s fallen leader and more like a man grieving the loss of his beloved. A father figure. A friend. A lover. Will isn’t entirely sure where he’s going with this or what kind of conclusion it should have and leaves what he has drafted out with his reference books to be looked over again later.

He tries the harpsichord again a little when Dad comes home in the evening. He’s got the basics down fine by now but was right in guessing before that it doesn’t really suit him like the piano does. This is his father’s instrument through and through.

“May I join you?” He looks up to see Daddy watching him from the entryway into the study, Will’s notebook in hand. He must have come in to help him brainstorm his work when he noticed Will playing. Will had known perfectly well that he might— _might look over what he has written so far, might see him at the harpsichord and stay to watch, might ask if they could sit together like they’ve done before for previous lessons_ —so why is he trying not to squirm with nerves and embarrassment now?

He scoots over a bit to make room on the bench. Daddy sets the notebook down and sits beside him. For a few minutes he just watches and listens as Will continues to play.

“If I may,” he eventually murmurs, and lightly ghosts his fingertips over the back of Will’s hands, adjusting the positioning of his wrists. He _must_ be able to feel the sudden pickup to Will’s pulse as he does so, but he says nothing about it. “Now try.”

It sounds a little better this time. More minutes pass like this. His father decides to show him something else by demonstrating directly. Will watches the dexterous movements of his hands, almost hypnotic.

When it’s his turn again, he places his own hands where his father’s just were, trying to imagine phantom warmth where his fingers brushed against the keys, and tilts his wrists just a little too high. “Like this?” Will closes his eyes against a shiver when Daddy’s big hands slide over his own again.

All movement stills at Will’s shiver, even their breaths. Then his dad’s fingers continue to trail, twining with his own and curling inward. Will’s curl with them. He finally opens his eyes.

His daddy’s eyes are darkened, hooded, staring into his own like he can see Will’s lingering dreams there, burned into his retinas like photographs. Like he could reach in and pluck them out with just a look, just a touch.

Dad’s eyes flicker downward then, to his mouth, and Will’s heart stutters in his chest.

Will stands abruptly, accidentally slamming his hands into the keys as he jerks them away from his father’s to cause an echoing, mangled discordance that makes them both wince. He backs away. He gapes his mouth open and shut dumbly like a fish, trying to find the right words to say.

He turns around and runs upstairs to his room, the fleeting expression of _rejection_ and _hurt_ before his father’s face had smoothed out to imperfect blankness playing on a constant loop in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😈😈😈 See you all next week! 😈😈😈


	18. Hungry Mouths, Silent Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mouth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2nx-W7499mM) by Bush.

Will slams the door to his room shut and slumps back against it, breathing heavily. His hands scrub roughly over his face, leaving angry red marks in their wake. His lip trembles, there’s a tight, stabbing clench in his chest, and his stomach seems to be doing somersaults, driving acidic bile up his throat. Finally he allows himself to just slide down the door and fall on his ass and starts crying. Loud, ugly, wretched sobs that wrack his whole body. He knocks his head back against the door a couple of times in self-recrimination and pent-up frustration. Throughout, the rest of the house is quiet and still.

Daddy doesn’t come upstairs after him. Not to comfort him, not to finish what they started, not to tell him off for running away like that, not to clear the air by feigning confusion over why he got up and ran in the first place. Will would hate him for that last one, just a little. He’s not an _idiot,_ for all that he’s been playing the part of one for long enough now that he almost had himself convinced it was all in his head. The touches, the lingering looks, the intimate conversations they’ve shared—a part of him has wanted, and feared, and been afraid to want, but he has _never_ allowed himself to seriously consider the possibility that it might all actually be leading somewhere. Too good to be true. Too _horrible_ to be true.

There’s no denying it anymore, and the knowledge that has been skimming along the upper edge of his subconscious, nebulous and unnamed, bursts forth to the surface in all its horrifying, unvarnished, crystalline truth. Daddy wants him, in _that_ way. And Will? Will doesn’t know what he wants, not exactly. He thought it was just him. It was _supposed_ to be just him, a weird loner’s awkward, humiliating crush on someone he wasn’t supposed to feel that way about, something stupid and shameful and awful he could bury down deep the way he’s buried so many things about himself in the past and hope it would go away on its own eventually. His daddy is…is his _dad,_ for god’s sake. He isn’t supposed to reciprocate and _look at him like that._

It’s hideous. It’s immoral. It’s fucked up and just _wrong_. Will wants it so badly he could throw up. Too many butterflies rapidly beating their wings, erratic and panicked, trapped in the warm cage of his belly.

An hour later, his father knocks to tell him dinner is ready through the door, muffled voice eerily distant and subdued. Will’s chest clenches again to hear it like this.

The meal itself is oppressively silent and solemn. He wants to bridge the gulf dividing them but has no idea how. In a way he’s almost glad to slink back up to his room afterwards like a coward instead.

Breakfast is hardly any better. Daddy makes them separate lunches before he heads to the office, taking his own with him in fancy tupperware containers. He still calls to check up on Will during his first afternoon break, however, sticking to the topics of schoolwork and what they should have for dinner, his tone mild and pleasant the way it had been with the tree movers and his opera friends. Will has to go sit down with his head between his knees afterwards and breathe deep to try to stop himself from hyperventilating. He doesn’t get much done that day. Dad doesn’t say anything about it. He makes some excuse to run out for “errands” on his own after dinner that evening, and the evening after that.

After two more days of this, Will wants to hurdle himself through an upper-floor window. By the weekend, his father is talking to him in-person again, lukewarm pleasantries, generic compliments and gentle correction of his homework. He rarely looks at Will even when speaking with him directly. There is not a single touch exchanged, not even an “accidental” brush of shoulders or hands when one of them slips by the other in the hallway. His dad calls him by his name or nothing at all, not a “darling” or a “good boy” or a “my love” to be heard passing from his lips. Will has never despised the sound of his own name so much.

By the middle of the following week, he can’t take it anymore. After Daddy leaves for work, he returns to his room and rifles through his books on the shelf until he finds the one he stuck Ardelia Mapp’s business card in. She’d handed it to him the morning of his last day in Virginia, soliciting a promise from him to call if he ever needed anything, even if she wasn’t at her social worker gig anymore by then. She’d written her personal number on the back of it just in case.

He doesn’t know what else he can do, but he knows what he _should_ do. He turns the card over and over again in his hand, tapping the edge against the kitchen countertop in a rhythmic drumming motion with each new pass. He gets up, leaving it there, and plays piano for a while, trying to think rationally through his choices here. He gets up again and goes to the den to mindlessly fight hordes of zombies and other monsters without bothering to heal until his character dies over and over again and her pained grunts and terrified cries almost become meaningless noise to him. He shuts off the console without saving and goes back into the kitchen, snatching up the cordless phone from its cradle.

He’s afraid she won’t answer. He’s afraid that she will. After a few rings, she picks up.

“Hey, um, hi.” Will clears his throat. “Ms. Mapp? This is Will. Will Graham? I’m not sure if you remember me, uh…”

_“Hey, Will. Of course I remember you,”_ she says, her voice as warm and pleasantly husky as he remembers. _“How’s Baltimore? Are you settling in ok?”_

“Yeah. Well, uh…” He feels cold all over, skin prickling with nerves. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” He swallows inaudibly, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He opens them again and glances up, away from the countertop, flitting his gaze automatically to the only real spot of color in the room, and freezes in place.

_“Will?”_ Ardelia prompts with a note of concern in her voice.

Will stares at the paper lilac still hanging on the fridge and comes to a decision, feeling some of the tension he’s been carrying in his shoulders for about a week loosen. “I…I just wanted to thank you, Ms. Mapp. For everything. Things are really, really great,” he says, finding that even now, after everything, a part of him actually still means it. “Dad’s great. He really gets me…I mean, we really get each other, you know? I don’t know where I’d be without him right now. So I just, um, wanted to say thanks. For finding him for me.”

_“I’m so glad to hear that, Will,”_ she says, sounding truly touched. _“I’ve been wondering how you guys were doing for a while now but didn’t want to intrude.”_

Will tells her a little more about life in Baltimore, the safe parts to tell anyway, like going to operas and learning how to drive. She shares the news that she’s been accepted into the FBI Academy and starts in the summer. He’s surprised to realize how much he actually missed talking to someone besides Hannibal, and resolves to call Peter too sometime later in the week. They have lots of catching up to do as well.

The phone beeps rhythmically after a few minutes. “Oh, that’s Daddy calling from work to check in. I should go.” They hang up after agreeing to keep in touch more. Will just barely misses the mark to pick up the other call before the answering machine picks up instead, and hurriedly returns to the phone’s cradle to stop it and answer. “Hey, Daddy, sorry about that.”

_“Will, is everything alright?”_ his father asks.

“Um, yeah, I was just washing my hands when you called. Didn’t want to get the phone wet.” His father hums into the receiver. Will swallows back another bout of guilt and nerves, determinedly keeping cool and casual so as not to give away what he almost just did.

Their conversation is briefer than his last one, bland and meaningless as all the other ones they’ve been having lately. Will aches with the need to fix it somehow.

When his father comes home, Will is waiting in the foyer and launches himself forward as soon as the door is shut, before Hannibal even has a chance to get his coat off. It feels so good to throw his arms around the man that he’s literally sobbing in seconds and feels like a lunatic for it, at least until Daddy’s arms wrap around him just as tightly, solid and warm, making him feel fully realized and whole once again. The man murmurs something in French against his ear, but Will is too far gone in the moment to even try parsing it.

They don’t discuss what happened the other day, but things return more or less to normal between them, as if all that was needed was for Will to make the first move toward reconciliation. Will is both elated and wary, watching for any sign that Daddy is still disappointed and liable to turn away from him without warning while soaking up every drop of love and warmth the man showers him with again. Sometimes he thinks he can see a lingering trace of that pained look from before and sidles in closer to offer silent reassurance. Even the simplest of touches feel more daring now than before, but also more precious, almost a sacrament. It doesn’t escape his notice that there are still cracks in both of their armors, where wounds still tender and sore occasionally peek through.

The last few days of January are filled with party prep, giving him little time to reflect or be antsy about much else. Daddy is busy with decorating, rearranging furniture, and specialty shopping, thankfully happy to show Will the ropes and allow him to help out more this time around. Will still doesn’t really get the appeal, but it puts Dad in a more cheerful mood throughout the rest of the week and that makes the teen more eager to participate as well.

On Sunday morning, the caterers arrive to help with the finishing touches for the menu. The sous chef is officially someone from their team who delegates tasks and issues orders according to Hannibal’s instructions, but only one person in the kitchen is allowed to assist the good doctor directly and work side by side with him on the more complex dishes, albeit in only a limited way like chopping vegetables for most of them, and it is not any of the hired professionals present. Will is grateful not to be kicked out of the room this time, even if he still hates being this close in proximity to strangers for so long. He’ll have to get used to it for the rest of the day. At least the cooking is a decent distraction for now.

By afternoon they both have to get dressed in their suits but leave their jackets off to continue working in the kitchen. They duck out of the caterers’ way into the dining room for a minute while Daddy helps him roll up his sleeves past his elbows and ties his apron around his waist for him again. This is the most time they’ve spent alone together in their own home since the catering team’s arrival, and likely the last moment they’ll spend alone together until the final guest leaves later on tonight.

Will feels the warm breath stirring his hair at the back of his neck, the caress of fingertips gliding over his wrists once again as his shirtsleeves are rolled up, and holds himself carefully still, determined not to shiver this time from the contact.

“Are you nervous?” his father mutters lowly even though it’s just the two of them in the room and it’s unlikely even at normal volume that they would be heard over the clatter of dishes and murmured voices in the next room. And _of course_ the man was subtly checking his pulse at his wrists, though Will didn’t expect he would actually comment upon it this time, damn him.

“A little,” he admits. This is the first time the sacred space of their home will be filled with others since he moved in, and if he’s being honest, he’s feeling a little territorial now. He just wants to get this over with and then unceremoniously sweep everyone out of the house with a broom as soon as they finish dessert.

Hands at his waist then, to gather up the dangling strings at his sides and pull them taut behind him, enough to make him sway a little on his feet. He’s reminded of a scene from an old movie he only caught some of while late night channel-surfing more than a year ago, of a young girl being laced into her corset by her mother, only to be unlaced from it later by her new husband on their wedding night. He shuts his eyes and tries to banish the comparison from his mind.

“Do you want help with yours too?” he asks without thinking, too late to take the words back, as Daddy starts to unbutton his own cuff.

His father glances up in genuine surprise, holding his gaze for a moment, then slowly extends his wrist out for the boy to take. “Please.”

Will steps forward back into the man’s space, facing his front rather than his back, and rolls up his father’s shirtsleeve with the same careful precision Hannibal had shown for him. He keeps his eyes steadily on his father’s shirt without allowing them to stray as he unbuttons the next one.

A terrible impulse snares him as he finishes rolling up the other sleeve, and he allows one of his fingers to trace a line down the man’s toned forearm from the crook of his elbow to the edge of his inner wrist. The wrist suddenly turns and Daddy’s hand latches around his own, gripping it too tightly.

_“Will.”_ His voice is lowered again, rougher, and a shade or two darker than he’s ever heard it before. Will lightly swallows, still not daring to look up. He doesn’t hate the sound of his own name so much anymore.

The door to the kitchen swings open and Hannibal lets go, stepping backward and reaching for his own apron strings to tie it back himself. He reaches up to adjust the neck of the apron’s fit around his collar next. Will absently follows suit with his own apron and smooths his hands down his torso afterwards. The waitstaff walk past them without a glance, arms laden with trays to carry out into the study.

After a joint steadying breath, father and son reenter the kitchen to continue their final prep and listen for the doorbell to ring, signaling the arrival of the first of tonight’s guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🙈🙊💖


	19. Before the Feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ballroom Blitz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Aze726qAwA) by Sweet.

Will quickly loses track of who’s who as he and Dad greet everyone at the door as they arrive, and gradually with a bit of effort also becomes inured to the drone of voices and heels clacking on hardwood. It’s a little disconcerting how they all try to act like they’re old chums and butter him up for those first few minutes before melting into the crowd to chat up someone else though. He expected more shocked and scandalized whispering if he’s being completely honest, but once the novelty of meeting him wears off they appear to pay him little mind, which of course suits Will just fine. He gets a few long assessing looks from people who think they’re much sneakier than they actually are, but no one tries to grill him with questions about his parentage or his accent, or about anything really. He’s glad of it. He just wishes he knew _why_.

At least he’s doing better than standing there mutely this time. Dad doesn’t seem annoyed or offended by their lack of overt interest in Will either. In fact he’s often the one subtly nudging them someone else’s way so Will isn’t trapped in endless chitchat with the more long-winded guests. He suspects there isn’t a soul here apart from himself below the age of thirty, certainly no kids or even people his own age he could find something remotely in common with.

It’s inevitable that Daddy will get pulled away in other directions as a dutiful and attentive host, but Will feels the loss of him at his side keenly nonetheless. He drifts over to the hors d'oeuvres table once most of the guests have had a chance to pick over it first. Knowing how much there is still to come at the feast itself, he limits himself to one of each appetizer and still ends up with a tiny plate loaded down with too many choices. Maybe the next time a waiter happens by with a platter of those _apéritif_ drinks Daddy said were for stimulating appetites, he can snag one without reproach. They probably won’t want to stop and scold the son of the guy who’s paying them to be there, right?

While he’s loading up, he hears a couple he can’t see without peeking around the other side of what can only be described as a food _topiary_ at the center of the table. “What is _this,_ next to the meatballs?” the male voice asks skeptically.

“I have no idea, but it’s _exquisite,”_ says the other voice which Will presumes to be the man’s wife. “You know, I love that about Dr. Lecter’s spreads. So cleverly done, but you’d expect that of a host with a degree in psychiatry, wouldn’t you?” To the man’s inquisitive hum, presumably around a mouthful of food, she replies, “The _presentation,_ darling. Everything set out just so, the more exotic delicacies paired alongside more familiar favorites like your _meatballs,_ all with the idea in mind to ease you gently into trying new things and broadening your horizons a little.”

Will rolls his eyes at the woman trying to psychoanalyze the hors d'oeuvres spread. She’s right but she’s so undeservedly _smug_ about it like she just unraveled a particularly obtuse metaphor in a James Joyce novel or solved a sphinx’s riddle rather than accurately guessed why the ginger beef tataki rolls were set out next to the Turkish meatballs. He’d think her much cleverer if she recognized that the menu wasn’t the only way Dr. Lecter could be quite good at easing people into the idea of trying something they had never considered before.

Will makes a face and pops another appetizer into his mouth, just to keep himself from peering around and saying something snarky. He has to behave himself. He can’t joke with these people the way he does with Daddy and expect to get away with it. He swipes a cocktail from a passing server, completely unnoticed or at the very least unremarked upon, and takes a big swig to wash down everything he just ate. His mouth puckers at the unexpectedly bitter taste. He takes another, more conservative sip after to chase it.

“I do hope that’s a virgin Negroni, dear, though _how_ that wouldn’t be an oxymoron is beyond me. I’m sure if anyone could nail the recipe for such a mythical mocktail, however, it would be your father.” Will gives Mrs. Komeda his most innocent smile and takes another sip to stall for an answer, which he realizes belatedly half a second later is answer enough. The woman narrows her eyes but Will can read subtle amusement at his apparent precociousness in her expression.

“How did you find me in this crowd?” he asks, feeling braver than the last time they “spoke.” He wonders if it’s the alcohol already taking effect.

“Easy, you’re a teenager, I just made a beeline straight for the food.” Will huffs a laugh at the simplistic accuracy of this statement. “Oh, it’s not just because of your age though. New blood always hover around the hors d'oeuvres longer than everyone else, especially at a Lecter soirée.”

“I eat at his table every day,” Will argues, just because he’s already figured out that he can without offending her.

“And believe me, there is not a soul in attendance here tonight who isn’t insanely jealous of that fact, yours truly included.” Will feels bubbling warmth and pride in the well-deserved recognition of his father’s culinary talent.

“I was expecting less jealousy and more, uh, _judging,”_ he admits. “Like, I get no one wants to be obvious about it, but we’re at least an hour in here and there hasn’t been _one_ drunken asshole asking why Dr. Lecter’s kid sounds like such a hick yet.” He immediately flushes with embarrassment. His other father would have cuffed him upside the head for cussing in front of a lady, and while Daddy doesn’t seem to have any issue with Will’s vocabulary when it’s just the two of them, he imagines the man would be similarly displeased in this case. Mrs. Komeda gives no hint of distaste, however, her face instead flickering for a moment into something like sadness or pity before she swiftly catches herself and transforms it into a look of mischievousness instead.

“There won’t be any questions about your origins, dear. They would have to admit to not knowing the answer first. None of them would dare.” Off his curious look, she lowers her voice conspiratorially. “When your father first told me about you over the phone, he made it clear he didn’t want you inundated with such nosy inquiries if it could be avoided. So, I made a point not to mention you until opening night of _Madama Butterfly,_ when I gushed to everyone how delightful it was to have _finally_ met Hannibal’s son in person after all these years. They all resoundingly agreed with me that it was about time your father bring you around for your formal debut. Mr. Carmichael, over there by the blonde with the pearl brooch in her hair, made quite the amusing joke we all chortled at that he’d been beginning to wonder if you were even real.”

Will stares and covers his mouth to hide an astounded grin, not sure which he’s more awed by—Mrs. Komeda’s audacity and wicked genius, or the fact that everyone else here is so desperate to appear as a close friend to the esteemed psychiatrist that they’d all pretend to have known all along about a son none of them knew existed. He can see why Mrs. Komeda may be one of the closest to an actual friend Daddy has. They view everyone else in their spheres of influence with the same playful and lofty disregard.

“You already knew who I was when we met then. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You must allow me one of my petty foibles as I overlook yours, dear,” she says, glancing back to the drink still in his hand. “I so rarely get the opportunity to watch Marlene Richardson swallow her own foot entirely from toe to ankle.” Will snorts and hides this uncouth reaction with another sip of his definitely not-virgin cocktail.

“You talk a lot like how you write. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Thank you. I practice diligently,” she says, both dry and sincere. “And now I must warn you, since I have officially broken the ice by approaching you first and have now been granted what is deemed an acceptable amount of time for us to chat, the rest will flock one by one to pay you court as well.”

“I’m sorry?” Will asks, confused by what she means until she subtly gestures with her own drink. Will eyes the movement and tracks its trajectory until he finds himself looking at a bearded man coming towards them, chest already puffed out in self-importance. Will represses a groan.

“Good evening, Frederick,” Mrs. Komeda greets cordially.

“Mrs. Komeda, you light up the room with your beauty as always,” says the pompous man, the kind of overblown compliment Will is sure he gives to every woman who deigns to speak with him. Will doesn’t remember meeting him at the door, so he must have arrived “fashionably” late. He’s almost surprised Daddy didn’t turn him away with a curt reminder to show up on time in the future, assuming he would even be invited back again. The man turns to him next with all that smarmy swagger and says, “You’re Will Graham.”

“Sure am, last I checked,” Will responds dryly. “Whatever gave me away?” he asks, as if to suggest it couldn’t _possibly_ be the fact that he’s the only one here who matches the correct age and description.

“Ha! A little mouthy, isn’t he?” the man says to Komeda like Will isn’t _right there_. “Dr. Frederick Chilton,” he continues, addressing Will again and extending his hand. Will transfers his Negroni to his left hand and doesn’t bother to wipe away the condensation from the glass on his right before shaking it, just so he doesn’t have to be the only one uncomfortable with the contact. Chilton’s smile remains even though his brow pinches inward and he “subtly” wipes his hand against the leg of his pants afterwards.

“Glad to finally connect a face to the name,” Chilton rambles on. “Hannibal’s always singing your praises whenever he stops by my office to pay a visit. I’ve recently been instated as head director at Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, perhaps he’s mentioned it?”

“Does he?” Will asks mildly, ignoring the brag and obvious fishing for validation, equally doubtful of these “regular visits” to the man’s office as he is of Daddy talking about a son he hadn’t known existed yet. “What’s he said about me?” He keeps his gaze forward and doesn’t allow his eyes to flicker back to Mrs. Komeda, else he knows he would crack.

“Oh, um, you know, the usual proud father sort of talk. How you’re doing in school. How smart and well-mannered his boy is becoming, a real chip off the old block, you know, that sort of thing.”

Will hums. “He must have mentioned our lacrosse championship game too, I’m sure. He was so excited about taking the time off of work to come.”

“Oh yes, couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks! Congratulations, by the way. A well-deserved honor to be sure.”

Will gives the man a soft, sad little frown as he replies, “But we lost.”

Chilton sputters before recovering himself. “Ah, I realize, and of course I was _so_ sorry to hear it. But the fact that you made it that far at all is still something to be _very proud of,_ is what I meant. Don’t sell yourself and your team so short. There’s always next season.”

“I guess so,” Will agrees, still looking a little glum. As the conversation awkwardly peters out and Chilton makes his excuses to go bother somebody else, Will asks Mrs. Komeda under his breath, “Lacrosse is the one with the weird stubby little bats, right?”

She titters behind her hand. “No, dear, I believe you’re thinking of cricket. Lacrosse is the one with the weird long stick with a net on the end of it.”

“Ah. Gotcha. See, I totally know sports, especially fancy rich people ones.”

She laughs again and looks at him fondly. “You know, I’ll confess I wasn’t sure when I first saw you, but now I can _definitely_ see the resemblance.” Will shuffles his foot in place, pleased and embarrassed.

“What, does Dad make up outrageous lies just to see how far he can get away with it too?”

_“Constantly,”_ Mrs. Komeda affirms. Will laughs. If the rest of Baltimore high society only knew. “I was going to offer my services as a buffer for you this evening, but on second thought I don’t think you’ll need one. Beneath that shy lamb exterior is a character with real panache.” Will fights against a blush. She takes her leave of him with a matronly hand on his arm and a reminder not to overdo it on the pre-dinner drinks. He promises this will be his only one. He’s not looking for a repeat of New Years.

Her prediction proves on the mark as he finds himself having to navigate more strangers coming up to talk to him as the night wears on. He discovers that it really is easier if he treats it like a game the way he had with Chilton, crafting a Will Graham-shaped persona that toes the line of what these people expect of Hannibal Lecter’s son and what ruffles their feathers a little without crossing the line into offensive or noticeably intentional.

More than once he casts his gaze back into the crowd like a baited line, searching for the only face that matters, and every time he meets his father’s eyes with the realization that Daddy is already looking back at him. Oh, he’s _smooth_ about it, smoother than Will must be, but at least he has his age and inexperience with these kind of gatherings to explain it away as nerves, latching onto a parent’s familiar presence for comfort. He doesn’t care if it makes him appear a little childish. He isn’t here putting up with this party tonight for any of _them_.

Daddy doesn’t openly stare and maintains every appearance of giving his own conversation partners his undivided attention for the most part. Not that anyone here wouldn’t forgive him the occasional lapse of his own to check on how his son is faring anyway. Their glances across the room are always brief and perfectly within the realm of appropriate and respectable, but Will feels each and every one of them with a heated tenderness that reminds him of an apron being tightened around his waist and his own clumsy finger tracing the blue vein line running down his daddy’s forearm.

More than ever he wants to just shoo them all out, even Mrs. Komeda, and remake the sanctified heart of their home into a space that’s just for the two of them.

He’s only soothed by Daddy sidling up next to him once again, tapping his own glass lightly with a spoon to call everyone’s attention and lead them all like the pied piper into the dining room, a hand circled around Will’s elbow to keep him at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A [Negroni](https://www.liquor.com/recipes/negroni/) is equal parts gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth, so the concept of a virgin Negroni is, indeed, quite laughable. And yet oddly enough, [one](https://www.thezeroproof.com/home/the-perfect-virgin-negroni-recipe) does actually exist (technically, if one doesn't count the bitters 🤷).


	20. A Taste of Everything to Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A Case of You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XEWE4J7ZTyc) by Joni Mitchell.

“And remember, nothing here is vegetarian. Bon appétit.”

Hannibal surveys his domain with a proud, pleased smirk as the guests eagerly dig in. Will sits to his right at the table, Mrs. Komeda on his left. He had eyed their interactions from a distance earlier in the evening and been gratified to see them getting along well, tamping down on the ugly whispers down hidden corridors of his mind palace that are leery of seeing his Will get along well with _anyone_. He knows that realistically he cannot be Will’s sole confidante and friend forever, but he can at least curate the boy’s experiences and who he connects with.

The table is silent at the start of the meal save for the clinking of dinnerware and a few effusive compliments to the chef, compliments which quickly multiply in number as everyone soon chimes in to make sure their voices are heard. The only person who remains quiet during this is Will. The boy merely looks up at him with a soft smile and takes a sip from his water glass before breaking eye contact. His own return smile is far warmer and gentler than any he has given everyone else present and he cares little who notices. He can allow himself that much of an indulgence in company.

“Have you enrolled the boy in an academy here in Baltimore yet, doctor?” asks George Frond, the head of the Friends of the Symphony board.

“He should join Gilman,” says John Peters, another board member. “That’s where I went when I was his age. A fine institution.”

“That stuffy all-boys school? No, no, forgive me, Mr. Peters but that just won’t do, not on _this_ side of the twentieth century,” sniffs Alice Frobisher, recently inducted to vice treasurer of the Rotary Club. “My daughter goes to St. Elizabeth’s. They could be in the same class together. Speaking of which, young man, do you happen to have an interest in literature? My Lulu is falling a bit behind in her English coursework this semester, but I’m sure she could be inspired to put in more effort with the right study partner,” she suggests, far too coyly for Hannibal’s liking. Will takes a bite of his osso buco without answering, clearly starting to feel uncomfortable again. Hannibal interjects before any other guests try to jump in with more school suggestions or insinuations about study groups.

“I will be tutoring Will privately at home through the end of the school year, and quite likely into the next one.” His tone brooks a gentle finality which makes it clear this is not up for debate. Certain guests appear tempted to add their own remarks nonetheless—nothing draws out the boorish and opinionated like the subject of child-rearing—but the wiser ones are quick to change the subject, and soon chatter at the table is broken into smaller conversations with their closest neighbors while those at the head of the table are allowed to eat in peace. No one else offers any more unsolicited advice as the next course is brought out.

Will had done swimmingly well when approached by individuals or pairs earlier in the evening, from what Hannibal had seen, but now amid the din of voices and silverware in a smaller echoing room, he is quiet and withdrawn again as he had been at _Madama Butterfly_. The best course of action would be not to attempt to coax him into speaking again, where the guests surrounding him shall pretend poorly not to be listening in and make his boy retreat even further back into his shy cocoon, but to offer him silent reassurance instead.

Hannibal slides his foot slightly forward and to the right until it makes contact with his son’s. Will blinks out of the slight daze he had fallen into as he ate—most likely floating on his back in the endless dark ocean he had described for his father not long ago—and looks up at him through long eyelashes.

“Um…Dad, can I try some of your wine? Just a sip,” he says, curiously darting a quick glance to Mrs. Komeda before returning his gaze to his father. “Everybody keeps talking about how well it pairs with the meal and it’s making me wonder what I’m missing out on,” he says with a guileless smile.

“Just a sip,” Hannibal agrees, sliding the glass a few inches closer to the boy’s place setting within reach. Will swirls and delicately sniffs it first as he has seen his father do many times, despite likely being unaware of the reason for it, and brings the glass to his lips. The moment the first drop of Amarone touches his tongue, the boy’s foot glides upward to graze against Hannibal’s shin.

Hannibal gives no outward reaction save for a briefly tightened grip around his fork. He lifts a single brow and says, “That’s more than a sip,” as Will continues to drink. Mrs. Komeda tuts in good humor, softening it with a smile. The boy immediately sets the glass back down within his father’s reach, his lips a fine wet, darkened red from the wine and a pretty flush creeping in along his cheeks, one that anyone else would mistake for embarrassment along with an effect of the alcohol entering his system.

“Sorry,” he says, and slowly pulls his foot away as well. Hannibal snares it back in place with his own, resting his loafer against the boy’s Achilles tendon, and lightly traces upward. Will takes another bite of the saffron risotto and keeps his eyes on his plate throughout most of the meal afterwards.

The guests rise to slowly take their leave as dessert winds down, the majority of them respectfully brief in their goodbyes at the door. The soft swell of the piano from the other room plays them out. Will has clearly decided he’s had enough of pretending to be sociable for one evening. They shall have to compromise with smaller gatherings in future and allow Will more time and practice before throwing him into another party of this scale. Hannibal makes note of whom not to invite back anytime soon by keeping track of which few remark upon Will’s sudden absence and imply it to be a sign of ill upbringing or bad manners. The ones who instead compliment the music or call his son “quite a charming young man” with actual sincerity are raised a notch slightly higher in his estimation.

The music abruptly shifts from the Nocturnes to a loud and brash jazz melody Hannibal does not recognize as he is seeing the last of the guests out. Mrs. Richardson, whom he had seated at the farthest end of the table from himself and Will, is not in the foyer waiting to be escorted out. He frowns, taking up her coat and folding it neatly over his arm before returning to the study.

There stands the widow, who shall be joining her late husband of ten years sooner than her age and good health would suggest if she continues to hover much too close like that. He understands now why Will would choose to switch to something much louder and more raucous than before. The boy keeps his focus stubbornly on the instrument beneath his hands whilst Mrs. Richardson’s attention remains glued to his son, so neither of them notice him enter.

“Such talented fingers!” the woman coos, nearly shouting now to make herself heard, setting her emptied wine glass on a nearby table with a slight wobble. Hannibal has been too remiss in his distraction this evening to keep an eye on how much some of his guests have had to drink, it seems. “See, that’s what I meant when I said the girls would start fawning over you in no time if they haven’t been already.” She gives an exaggerated pout, either not realizing or not caring in her drunken state that the subject she aims it at is neither looking at her nor actively listening. “Not that they’d know what to do if any of them had you. Not like a real woman does. You’ll be sixteen soon, won’t you?” she asks, sidling even closer now with a giggle. “You know, after we met the other night, I went looking into Maryland’s age of consent laws—”

Hannibal raps his knuckles loudly against a nearby table and steps fully into the room. Mrs. Richardson springs backward looking guilty and flushed, nearly tripping over her own heels. Hannibal does nothing to assist her and merely waits for her to find her correct footing again on her own. Will glances up at them without stopping, only allowing the song to taper off into a gentler riff that will allow for conversation at normal volume once again. His eyes meet his father’s briefly with a familiar, amused lift of his brow and a well of gratitude and relief in the gaze beneath it before returning to the keys beneath his fingertips.

“Mrs. Richardson, your driver is outside waiting to take you home,” Hannibal informs her, shaking out her coat and holding it up to help her put it on. She turns with a sway that she likely hopes to be seductive but is only impressive in the fact that she remains steady on her feet as she goes this time.

Her penchant for flirtation with handsome men knows no bounds as she purrs praises to Hannibal for the fine meal this evening. “We simply must do this again soon,” she says as she faces him again with her coat on, a hand resting coyly at the crook of Hannibal’s elbow. Will misses a note but keeps playing.

Hannibal gives her a waxen smile, knowing she won’t be able to tell the difference while this inebriated. He had given her the chance to redeem herself with this invitation, apparently for naught. There is only one way Marlene Richardson will ever be returning to his table after tonight, and it is not as a guest.

He sees her to the door and returns to the study once again. Only then does Will pause and pull his hands away from the keyboard.

“I should have been paying more attention and stopped her from coming in here before she had a chance to interrupt you.” Will shrugs in response to this.

“It’s fine.” He chews lightly on his bottom lip. “You’re not mad that I came in here instead of telling everyone bye, are you?”

Hannibal pets his fingers through Will’s hair and drags his hand further down, gliding it over his cheek. Will leans into the touch and tilts his head upward with little prompting when Hannibal’s fingers curl beneath his chin, his own hand reaching up to grasp the same elbow Mrs. Richardson touched, perhaps intentionally as a way of imprinting his claim and reaffirming his right to Hannibal over her. His father dares to hope. “Finding you here relaxed and at ease in our home again is more important to me than strict adherence to dinner party etiquette, mon beau fils.”

His boy closes his eyes, quietly preening under the attention from his daddy that is all his and his alone again. Almost. Alas, Hannibal still needs to oversee the clean-up of his dining room and kitchen and make sure each member of the hired staff receives their customary tip and box of leftover dishes of their choice.

He drops a light kiss above the boy’s brow and promises to be done soon, declining Will’s offer of help with a suggestion to continue playing as a way to wind down for the evening instead. He picks up Mrs. Richardson’s discarded glass and returns with it to the kitchen. The staff have done an excellent job of clearing the study already so they shouldn’t come in to disturb Will’s playing a second time.

Once the culinary crew has left and the house is relatively spotless once more—he will, of course, be using his day off tomorrow to make sure of it—he returns to the study one last time.

Will has removed his jacket, glasses, and shoes and left them by the sofa in front of the fireplace. Though it is against the orderly system he has in place for putting things away, Hannibal removes his own jacket and shoes and sets them aside at the same spot. Will glances up as he finishes his final song and makes room on the bench for his father to sit beside him.

Hannibal’s fingers furl and unfurl at his sides for a moment. Then he walks forward and sits, relishing the way Will relaxes against him instead of pulling away as their thighs brush. “Did you want to play something together?”

Will shakes his head and glances away from him, back to the keyboard, frowning, his hands now clenched tightly in his lap. It’s only natural for Hannibal to place one of his own over the one nearest him, splaying his fingers and rubbing lightly with his thumb to encourage the boy’s grip to loosen. His son takes a shuddering breath and relaxes again at his side. His gaze flickers back to Hannibal’s and there it stays this time. Neither of them utters a word as their breaths fall into synchronicity.

Hannibal keeps his posture carefully loose but still as his son leans in closer. The boy pecks a trembling, uncertain kiss at the corner of his father’s mouth, a mirror of their kiss a month ago at New Years. Hannibal swallows lightly. Will then places a tentative hand on his father’s cheek, the barest hint of a suggestion for the man to turn his head, a suggestion which Hannibal happily obeys. That trembling mouth now presses softly against his own, fully, and Hannibal watches raptly as those clouded, storm-colored eyes flutter closed.

His hand around Will’s clenches tighter as the boy’s kiss presses firmer, and Will moans in response, his lips falling open around the sound with the tiniest of gaps. Hannibal takes a risk in capturing the boy’s plush bottom lip between his own to lightly suckle and return the soft kiss with their mouths slightly parted. Will kisses him back with a heavenly sigh and for an immeasurably perfect time it is just this, the two of them lipping gently at one another’s mouths, prickling and wet, shivering when the other’s tongue passes over the sealed seam of their lips without daring to venture inside.

When Will finally gathers enough courage to dart his tongue inward, just enough to touch the tip of it against Hannibal’s own, the final thread of Hannibal’s patience and sanity snaps. He cups Will’s face with his free hand to angle the boy’s head where he wants it and dives in deeper with his own tongue for a more complete, maddening taste. The sweet whimpers and whines his boy makes as Hannibal takes control of the kiss embolden him further. His hand slides to the back of Will’s neck to hold him in place as their kisses turn more consuming, his grip on Will’s other hand likely becoming painful as the boy’s free one drops to his daddy’s shirt collar and stretches the fabric within its own tight grasp.

He _wants_ with a desperation that shatters the last of his resolve to take this at a slower pace for the boy’s sake. He can no longer stand the thought of not knowing what his son’s lithe, trembling body feels like bare beneath his hands. Hannibal stands and pulls Will up with him, still kissing him breathless, kicking the piano bench out of the way with a sweep of his leg so he can walk them backwards unhindered towards the stairs.

Still, they must part to actually climb them. His head clears incrementally as he pulls back far enough for them to only be touching at their joined hands now. The boy looks up at him, flushed, disheveled, and more than a little dazed as he asks, _“Daddy?”_ in a roughened, panting voice, as if confused about why they stopped.

It takes all of his considerable willpower not to give up on the stairs right then and simply ravish his son where they stand. With a calming breath, he brings Will’s hands to his lips for a few featherlight kisses to his knuckles, then reluctantly lets go of one and offers his son the gentlest smile he can manage with his heart soaring so high and fast, keeping firm hold of the other one as he leads Will into the master bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DING.** _Attention all passengers, the elevator has finally arrived at its destination. Please exit in an orderly fashion, mind the hellhounds, and enjoy your stay!_ ❤️🔥


	21. Sweet Surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IomqHq6-hMc) by Peggy Lee.

Will stretches and blinks his eyes open slowly. The movement feels unusually decadent and obscene, his bare skin skimming across cool, smooth satin sheets instead of Egyptian cotton. He has a mild headache, not nearly as bad as the one he had on New Years, but enough to remind him that he really should take it a little easier if he’s going to drink at Daddy’s parties.

The scent of fresh coffee, rich and steaming on the nightstand beside him, is likely what woke him up. He stares at it, then at the not-too familiar walls of his father’s bedroom and the sumptuous king-sized bedspread, sharply aware of his own nudity as he lies stretched out beneath it. He sits up, shivering, though not from cold as the sheets slide away from his torso to pool around his waist, and presses lightly against his unblemished skin where he remembers the press of other fingertips and gentle, laving licks and kisses the night before. His skin rapidly goes pink and warm all over, from his face creeping all the way down, down, spilling over his neck, shoulders, and chest, and he shivers again.

Last night he gave in. Gave into darkened, honeyed cinnamon eyes that roved over his body like they couldn’t believe he was real. Gave into warm, callused fingertips that grabbed his chin and tugged on his hair so Daddy could tilt his head however he wanted and kiss him as much as he liked, fingertips which then slowly pulled open the buttons on his shirt while Daddy’s mouth lavished attention to the nape of his neck and Will simply clung onto him, head falling back in a daze of sensation. Gave into Daddy’s hands unbuckling his belt and tugging it roughly away from his pants, then unbuttoning his fly and pulling the rest of his clothing off until he was completely nude while Daddy stayed dressed. Gave into being pushed backwards and laid out on the bed before he had time to grow self-conscious enough to try covering himself, Daddy kneeling over him and staring hungrily again like Will was the buffet spread he’d been dying to take a bite out of all night.

Gave into overwhelm and shaky moans as Daddy tugged gently on Will’s nipples with his teeth and suckled, lightly at first but then harder and harder, filling Will’s head with strange, hot, embarrassing thoughts about how he would fill Daddy’s mouth up full and over-brimming with milk if only he had any to give, craning his neck awkwardly to watch and cradling the back of the man’s head to hold him there and muss his perfect silken locks between his fingers.

Gave into the rich, roughened timbre of Daddy’s voice calling him _beautiful_ and _mine_ and _sweet boy_ and _temptation itself_ in half a dozen languages _,_ whispering these praises and more into the sensitive hollow of his throat and the creases between his thighs and groin, leaving Will shaking, keening, whining for _more,_ for _Daddy, please,_ for things he couldn’t possibly know or understand, things he’d hardly even dared to picture in the depths of his imagination.

Before last night he’d never even been kissed before. This morning, he cannot erase the knowledge of Daddy’s hands and lips all over him, in places he never would have even considered erotic before the man touched him there—his eyelids, his ears, the crook of his elbow, the arch of his foot. His father seemed determined in the flickering light from the fireplace and the silvery moonlight spilling in from the tiny gap in the curtains to know every inch of him from head to toe, to leave nothing untouched and untasted. He’d stared directly down into Will’s eyes and wrapped his fingers around Will’s cock and _pulled_ and the boy had thought he would die right then, blissed out and bucking into Daddy’s hand because he hadn’t _known,_ he’d had _no idea_ that it would feel so good, so much better than having his own hand there, digging his nails into the man’s wrist while that palm which had touched him in so many comparatively innocent ways before squeezed and glided stickily over his leaking prick.

The sound he’d made when Daddy took his hand away had been _furious,_ thunderous and loud, or so he’d thought until his daddy slid down the bed and bent low to swallow him down from root to tip, swirling his tongue over the whole length of him with a starved groan as he bobbed his head up and down a few times and _sucked_. Will had howled like he’d been gutted then, back bowing in an arch off the bed as he came and Daddy slurped noisily around his mouthful, swallowing it all.

He’d passed out too quickly afterwards to remember much beyond that. He can vaguely recall being tucked in and nuzzling sleepily into Daddy’s hairy chest when he joined him in bed, more whispered praises in his ear and a gentle rocking of the waves beneath him in his quickly encroaching dream ocean, rhythmically timed with the sound of flesh sliding rapidly over flesh and Daddy’s panted breaths stirring his hair. It’s obvious what that had all been about in hindsight and he blushes harder with the memory.

He fidgets also with the realization that last night had been all about _his_ pleasure and that he hadn’t done anything for Daddy, who’d had to finish himself off with his own hand after Will conked out. He isn’t sure whether to feel more guilty or relieved about that.

He sips slowly from his coffee, holding it close to himself with both hands, and forces himself to think about what happened in more…dispassionate terms. Last night he had sex for the first time—or is it really sex if it’s just some heavy petting and a blow job? An embarrassingly _quick_ blow job at that. He thinks so? But there are definitely boys at his old school who wouldn’t agree, who would swagger and say with arrogant confidence that it isn’t _really_ sex if it doesn’t end with you shooting your load into one of the _other_ holes available between your partner’s legs, or one hole really in two men’s case.

Does last night even count then? Yes, he thinks. _Probably._ Most of the other boys at Will’s old school were a bunch of idiots, and some of them were probably even lying _virgin_ idiots at that, so what would they know anyway? He’s letting himself get too hung up on a technicality at the moment when that’s not really the issue here and he knows it. _Last night._ Last night he had sex—or at the very least _“had sex”_ in air quotes—for the very first time. With _his dad._ He drains the last of his coffee and makes himself really think about that, letting it sink in.

Will had sex with his father last night, and _he really, really liked it._ A lot. He sets the mug back down on the nightstand a little too hard and buries his face in his hands, struggling for a moment to just breathe normally. This is all so fucked up. _Will_ is so fucked up. _Hannibal_ is so fucked up. This wasn’t supposed to happen. How are they supposed to go back to normal after this? They _can’t_.

He gets up out of bed, unsurprised not to find his clothes anywhere. Dad would have taken it all to the laundry room when he went downstairs to make coffee. Will uses the ensuite bathroom to freshen up, “brushing” his teeth haphazardly with a dollop of toothpaste on his finger because he’s not about to traipse naked across the hallway to grab his toothbrush, using the time to think and stall going downstairs to face the man who sired him fifteen years ago and then blew him just a few hours ago until he had the most incredible orgasm of his life because he has _no idea_ how that discussion should go, only that they need to have one, probably. Preferably after a whole lot more coffee, and _definitely_ after he finds something to cover himself up with first.

He settles on wearing Daddy’s thick blue robe at least for the short walk from here to his own room. It’s soft and comfortable like everything Daddy wears and smells like him too. The sleeves hang past his knuckles unless he rolls them up, but he’s more concerned with making sure it doesn’t gape too much in the front when he ties the sash before stepping out into the hall.

Will nearly freezes in place when he hears footsteps on the stairs below but keeps moving forward. They both reach his bedroom door at the same time, Hannibal with a breakfast tray in hand. Pancakes, smelling of cinnamon and vanilla like the ones Will made for him on Christmas Eve. Will’s smile is nostalgic and a little wobbly. A flower also rests beside the silverware laid out on it, plucked from one of the floral arrangements specially ordered for the party yesterday. A single red camellia.

Will looks back up from the tray to find his father’s gaze sweeping over him, his own smile soft but his eyes anything but as they linger on the hem that brushes past his son’s knees and the strip of skin bared by the V gap from his collarbone to the center of his chest before the sash does its job of keeping everything else hidden from sight. The want in that look gives off an energy that makes the boy feel claustrophobic in the suddenly narrow hallway, torn in two by one impulse to step back and another to undo the knot on his borrowed robe and let it slide down from his shoulders onto the floor.

“I was just, um,” he starts talking, hoping to find a rational trail of thought somewhere on the way there. “I was gonna put on some pants, then, uh, come downstairs to eat.” There it is.

“Ah.” Hannibal deftly moves the tray to one hand and opens the door for him, stepping back just enough to allow Will room to step inside. “After you then.” Will stares at the man’s red sweater for an awkward second before going in, trying to steady his breathing as his daddy follows him in and sets the tray on his nightstand. “Perhaps we could eat in here since I already brought the tray up.”

“Sure,” the boy answers without looking at him, going straight to his dresser to pick out a random pair of flannel bottoms and shimmy into them without pulling the robe up. He’d like to put on one of his regular T-shirts as well but can’t do that without taking the robe off first. In compromise, he pulls it closed a little tighter instead. “I’m gonna grab some more coffee real quick, ok?” he says, darting out of the room again before Daddy can answer him.

He forgot the mug in his father’s room earlier, so he plucks another one from the cabinet as he enters the kitchen and pours it straight, no sugar, no cream, barely waiting for it to cool down at all before he drains half the cup, grimacing at the bitter taste. He starts to pour more from the kettle when his father comes in.

Daddy lays a hand over his own and shuts the spout off again. “No more than two cups, young man, remember?” he says in good humor.

The laugh that Will sputters as he jerks his hand away, sloshing coffee all over the counter and kitchen floor in the process, is ugly and obnoxious. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks, spinning around to face the man. “Is that a fucking _joke?”_

Daddy tilts his head, eyes glittering yet still calm in the face of Will’s sudden temper. “Not at all,” he says. “Your health is my priority, Will. That hasn’t changed.”

“So I’m not old enough for more coffee, but I’m old enough for…” He doesn’t finish that sentence, letting it taper off to nowhere as his mouth spasms in another rough approximation of a smile and more angry giggles bubble up from his chest. He sets the mostly empty cup back onto the spattered countertop with exaggerated delicacy. “Okay. Fine. I’m going back up to my room then. _Don’t_ follow me.”

He sets the tray out in the hall in the same place where he put his things last time he was sent upstairs as a punishment. He slams the door shut behind him, for once annoyed that there is no lock on it to keep people out, especially when it opens again without a warning knock first only seconds later. “I said don’t follow me!”

“I believe you have forgotten to whom you are speaking,” Daddy tells him levelly. He steps inside, shutting the door behind him, and Will automatically steps backwards. “It is not for you to decide where in this house I am allowed to go, Will. Your breakfast has gone cold. You left a mess behind in the kitchen that needs to be cleaned now.” He sighs, still not angry, only disappointed. Will fiddles with the hems of his sleeves, unsure where to look. “What is to be done about all this, mio caro?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” He hates how small his voice sounds as he says it. Why is he even apologizing? Dad is the one to, to—

Daddy comes closer, and Will’s legs bump into the bed as he backs away. “It’s not the mess that upsets me, darling, or even the food gone to waste. But you know that.”

“I like cold pancakes actually,” Will says, utterly nonsensically as his father’s hand caresses his cheek.

Daddy hums, leaning in to nuzzle against an ear. Will closes his eyes and swallows, forcing himself to say what he needs to. “Dad, w-we _can’t.”_ His voice shakes as his father’s other hand works open the knot of his robe.

“Why ever not?” he asks, his voice so reasonable and unconcerned that for a second Will forgets he actually has a reason.

“Becau- _hah-ahhh_ -sssse it’s wrong?” Will’s voice lilts musically on accident as Daddy’s hand slides over his stomach and chest beneath the robe and that seductive mouth trails nips and kisses along his throat. He puts his hands on Daddy’s chest, intending to push him away, but can’t find the strength in his arms to make them do more than stay there and grip onto the man’s sweater.

“Taboo perhaps…” his daddy allows.

“And illegal!” the teen interjects, gasping and jumping a little when Daddy retaliates for the interruption with an extra sharp nip. Will’s eyes flutter open and shut like butterfly wings.

“…And illegal, yes, but tell me this, Will.” His daddy pulls back enough to look Will in the eyes, the hand on his torso snaking around to his back to pull the boy against him. Will’s hands tighten in the sweater and his mouth falls open without sound as his father’s clothed erection begins grinding gently against his own. The fingers of Hannibal’s other hand hold the back of Will’s head in a possessive grip snared within his curls, his thumb pressed lightly against Will’s ear. “Can you truly look into my heart, into your own, and tell me with conviction that the way we feel about each other is wrong?”

Will tries to answer, but nothing comes out resembling words as he instinctively grinds back against the man’s groin. Daddy leans closer and claims the boy’s mouth with his own again, and Will forgets what he was going to say anyway.

Another suggestive lean forward, a particularly rough squeeze to his behind to press their hips together harder that makes them both groan into the kiss, and Will is lowered onto the bed, his legs splaying open to accommodate the weight on top of him, knees bent, feet dangling off the edge above the floor.

Hannibal doesn’t remove any clothing from either of them this time. His hands splay out over the boy’s bared torso to caress, reaching up to halt the movement of Will’s shoulders when he tries to shrug out of the robe, already overheating. He pulls his own thick, already leaking dick out of his pants, rolling the soft fabric just behind his balls, then pulls Will’s pants down below the swell of his ass. Will hisses an indrawn breath as his cock bounces free, its moistened tip meeting the slightly chilled air.

Daddy’s is so _big,_ and uncircumcised unlike his own. His mouth runs dry and he starts to tremble a little with nerves thinking about where the man most likely wants to put that. Daddy surprises him, however, by merely leaning forward to steal another kiss, lowering his weight enough to drag their cocks against each other. Will jolts and moans into Daddy’s mouth, instinctively splaying his thighs wider and arching up to meet him stroke for stroke until he’s shaking again.

The man suddenly sits up to kneel beside him and manhandles Will into a similar position, almost in Daddy’s lap. Will puts his arms around the man’s shoulders, unsure what’s going on, as Daddy lines their dicks up to touch tip to tip. He takes hold of both with one of his large hands, leans forward with his forehead pressed against Will’s, and _strokes_.

Will’s mouth falls open again with a choked off gasp. Daddy’s left arm is like a vice around his body while the right hand continues to jack them both off at the same time, shivering, _tight,_ and intense in a way even last night’s hand job hadn’t been. He figures out why when he glances down, releasing a long, keening whine at the insanely erotic sight of Daddy’s foreskin enveloping Will’s tip as well as his own, visible in the gaps between Daddy’s long fingers.

“Da-aa- _Daddy. Daddy!”_ He hadn’t even known this was _a thing_ people did _._ Is it a thing? God, it should be. Will starts to sob for how good it feels as Daddy strokes them faster.

His blurred, watery eyes meet Hannibal’s burgundy gaze again, far too close with their foreheads still touching. His father’s eyes are fathomless and dark, all-consuming in a way the boy has never seen before. His pulse ratchets even higher and he shivers more in the realization that even now, with the two of them as close and interconnected as they’ve ever been, Daddy’s need for him is _ravenous_ and impossible to slake.

He comes with one final stroking squeeze and Daddy immediately follows. Dripping white fluid spills out of his foreskin where they are still connected as the man carefully peels it back and separates them. The air is blessedly cool on Will’s sticky, oversensitized dick as he collapses against his father, burying his nose in the crook of Daddy’s deliciously sweaty neck.

Daddy licks their shared release from his stained fingers, which seems like it should be gross but must not be, given the man’s satisfied groan. He uses the same spit-shine cleaned hand to maneuver Will’s head where he wants it and kisses him deeply once more.

The taste is strange but Will is too tired and worn out to complain, slowly getting used to it as the kiss lingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what resources on the language of flowers have to say about red camellias. 🤔 Or just on red flowers in general lol. 😅😏😉🌹


	22. Indulgences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lullaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sS6t56U9tBg) by The Cure. Because it's the song I really like to listen to the most when I'm feeling self-indulgent about fic and this is a very self-indulgent chapter. 😂

The best thing about their evolving relationship isn’t the sex, although that is a very, _very_ close second. It’s the heightened intimacy between them. It would almost be strange, how little their dynamic appears to change _on the surface,_ if Will weren’t becoming increasingly certain lately that Daddy has been gearing them towards this for a while. Most of their day-to-day interactions are the same but _more_ now. An arm around his shoulders that stays longer than it used to while they look over a reading or one of his assignments together. Welcome home hugs at the door that feel a little more charged than they used to and have evolved to include a welcome home kiss, generally fairly chaste but most certainly not _innocent._ Closer brushes against his back as Daddy shows him how he wants certain vegetables chopped when they’re making dinner, a foot sliding to rest against the other’s under the table at meals, harmless and still but unequivocally _there_. They’re almost never _not_ touching in some capacity these days.

It’s horrible and exhilarating. He’s not going to lie to himself and pretend like his father isn’t a deplorable human being for doing this, or like he himself isn’t just as bad for delighting in it, but it’s so hard to care about any of that when they’re snuggled close and necking on the couch, when Daddy holds him and lavishes sweet little butterfly kisses all over his face and neck and rasps in his ear how madly he’s wanted this, how desperately he’d hoped Will would want it too, how perfect they are together. He thought he understood before how much they meant to each other, how much Hannibal loved him, but all along the man had been _holding back_ and that’s—awful, thrilling, horrid, _terrifying_ —so overwhelming and wonderful and Will never, ever wants them to stop.

The sex though, and he cannot emphasize this enough, is _earth-shattering_. He’d also thought he had some idea of what that would be like, from school rumors and occasional illicit glimpses of skin magazines and _late_ late night television when Mom went out to the piano bars, but as it turns out _none_ of that had actually prepared him for the absurd, intense, _maddening_ things his daddy does to drive him completely rabid and wild. Like now, when only minutes ago they had been making out on the sofa until suddenly he finds himself undressed again, his head resting against a small pile of cushions tossed on the floor for his comfort while he dangles _upside down_ between his father’s knees and the man _licks_ him where Will never, ever expected a mouth to go.

He isn’t sure what to expect but the first time Daddy’s tongue touches him _there_ he twitches, instinctively trying to pull away, and sobs. How how _how_ is that so good? It should be disgusting, but as Daddy locks an arm around Will’s torso to hold him in place and keep him from toppling over, he spreads the boy’s cheeks open with his other hand and flattens his tongue to drag it along Will’s asshole in a hot wet stripe, like a mother cat cleaning her kitten, and Will keens some more. The deep, reverberating, happy sounds his father makes as he nuzzles, licks, and mouths at Will there of all places, like there’s nothing else on Earth he’d rather be doing, make it even harder to protest. It’s sloppy and gross and damp and Will is shaking apart from it. His daddy is just as enthusiastic about this as he is about everything they do together. When he starts to drive the tip of his tongue inside, Will can’t contain his own noises anymore.

He tries to at first, squeezes his eyes shut and hides his mouth behind his hand, but Daddy stops just long enough to remind him that the walls of their house are soundproof and no one will be able to hear them besides each other, adding sweet whispered praises along Will’s skin for all the pretty whimpers, moans, and sighs his beautiful son makes, how happy it makes him to hear how much his baby boy loves what his daddy does to him, that really he could afford to let loose a little more and be even _louder_ if he wants.

Daddy slurps Will’s balls up into his mouth one at a time and suckles on them a little, yet another incredible thing Will had no idea could be done with a mouth, much less that it could be so pleasurable and sexy to watch. When he dives back into Will’s hole with that sinful, persuasive tongue, the boy wails without disguising it this time and his thighs quiver from the effort of holding his legs up.

A hand brushes along his knee, encouraging him wordlessly to cross his ankles behind Daddy’s head and allow his legs to drape more comfortably over the man’s shoulders. Fully trusting his weight as Hannibal’s burden to bear rather than his own, Will unconsciously begins to subtly rock in time with his father’s long stroking licks, chasing the sensation with panted, huffing breaths, one hand locked in a tight grip in his own curls while the other can’t stay still any more than the rest of his body can, at times trying to hold onto the back of his father’s pants leg and at others skimming across his own bared chest. The arm around his torso turns out to be a necessary vice to keep him held “upright” as Will’s rocking gets steadily rougher and needier.

His hand skims accidentally over one of his own pert nipples, making him bite down on his lip. He does it again deliberately and gasps, drawing a similar sound from the man enthusiastically feasting between his thighs. Their eyes meet and despite still feeling a little awkward and ungainly in this position, Will makes a point to slow his own rhythm down and maintains eye contact as he delicately grabs hold of the other nipple and pinches, moaning.

Whether as punishment or reward for Will’s personal bodily exploration, Daddy straightens up on the couch, pulling the boy along with him. One of the cushions of his pillow tower topples over, leaving his head to dangle as blood rushes to it, quickly leaving him dizzy as Daddy attacks his hole with greater urgency than before in a series of deep, rapid thrusts inward with his tongue.

Daddy’s free hand barely touches Will’s neglected cock once before the boy is suddenly coming, closing his eyes against the warm, sticky spurts that land on his face and chest. He unthinkingly licks away what drips into the corner of his lips.

Daddy doesn’t give him much time to recover, hauling him up by his arms to pull him into a scorching kiss. He doesn’t particularly enjoy the earthy taste of himself on his father’s tongue, but a hand at the back of his head keeps him from pulling away, and as before Will is too tired to fight it and ends up adapting to the taste more quickly than he expected anyway.

His daddy lays him back out on the couch, still covered in his own rapidly cooling semen, and kneels over him. He unbuckles his belt and pulls himself out of his own pants. This is one of Will’s favorite views of the man now, when he’s just a little out of breath, hair mussed, still done up in his ever present tie and vest from work earlier in the day while his cock juts out from his pressed slacks, hard and leaking just for him. It’s less intimidating than both of them being naked at the same time.

One hand on the armrest beside Will’s head, the other tugging quickly on his dick, he looms over the boy sunken bonelessly into the sofa. Will lies there and watches, mesmerized.

He hasn’t done much of the _initiating_ since they’ve started fooling around. He’s barely touched his father sexually at all to be honest, not that the man really seems to mind. His daddy seems happy enough just to manhandle Will however he wants him and do all the touching himself.

A little shy but curious now, and once again not giving much thought to what he does before he acts impulsively, Will sits up and presses the end of his index finger against the man’s tip, watching in rapt, heavy-lidded fascination as it gets sucked into the foreskin and emerges from it glistening and wet all over. Daddy makes a strained noise at the touch that draws Will’s eyes upward to his once again.

Another heady impulse takes over as he draws the finger into his mouth and sucks it clean like a lollipop. Another sound like a broken snarl is torn out of his father’s chest, then the hand on the armrest grabs Will by the scruff of his neck and pulls him forward, partly hunched over and almost unbearably closer to his groin. The scent of his musk is overpowering here.

Will grabs onto the man’s rumpled slacks bunched up at his thighs for support and breathes open-mouthed in time with his father’s ragged, panting grunts, his eyes drifting closed the exact moment their breaths both hitch and just in time to avoid the first hot splash of cum that paints his face more thoroughly than his own orgasm had, enough dripping down into his open mouth that he has to lick his lips and swallow more than once. He surprises himself by thinking it actually tastes kind of nice when it’s this thick and fresh.

His left eye is now semi-permanently shut by the sticky, cooling substance for the moment, which is not so great. He’s hauled up into another breath-stealing kiss once his father has the energy to stand on shaking legs, called something in slurred Italian which he _thinks_ translates as “naughty, enchanting demon-child,” and told to wait right there while Daddy runs upstairs to get a clean washcloth. Will plops right back down on the sofa to do just that, staring one-eyed up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath.

*

Hannibal returns after quickly brushing his teeth, having noticed that Will seemed a bit reticent about kissing him back earlier, nude and with a warm damp cloth in hand. The sight of his son still sprawled out as he left him, painted thickly in the evidence of both of their passions, is one he commits to memory for later study in one of his private sketchbooks. He has created a few such drawings now since the first night they made love, all of them from memory. One day he will have the patience to draw the boy nude while he lies still in repose for his father’s leisurely pleasure, but that day will not be today or tomorrow. For now, he simply doesn’t have the willpower to stop his hands from roaming freely every time Will is bare in his presence, and often even when he is not. It is appalling, this absence of self-control he has exercised of late, and all the more reason to forestall having any more guests over for the foreseeable future.

He coaxes Will up into a seated position and delicately cleans away the cooling, dried seed around his boy’s eye. The adorable little nymph giggles at the sensation, then does so again when Hannibal leans in, smiling, for a kiss and the boy tastes the artificial mint on his breath. He leaves the rest of the dried streaks on Will’s skin despite the boy’s grumbling complaints, pointing out to his son that a shower will wash away the rest far better than a recently soiled cloth.

“Together?” Will asks, eyes flickering uncertainly to take in his father’s nudity as if it only occurs to him now to wonder about it. His continued shyness even now, with the evidence of their shared ardor still flaking away from his skin, is like an aphrodisiac to Hannibal. It makes him want to bend his son over the back of the loveseat and worship his sweet, puckered hole with his tongue again until Will cries. Instead, he brings their joined hands up to kiss Will’s knuckles and tells him the water should be warm enough by now before guiding him upstairs to the ensuite.

It was here not so long ago that Hannibal would often stroke himself to completion alone being only able to imagine what the beauty in front of him now looked like beneath the soft sweaters his daddy bought for him. Now here he is coaxing the shy lamb under the water’s spray with him, with a few softly murmured words persuading Will to let Daddy wash his hair for him, standing with him back to front and admiring his sweetly dimpled backside as he runs soap-slicked fingers over the boy’s skin.

Will has a teenager’s enthusiasm and remarkable refractory period, and quickly stiffens in Hannibal’s palm once again. He will not be coming quite so quickly as last time, however, not when he has already done so recently and Hannibal intends to take his time with him.

He keeps his touches light and teasing until Will is too sensitive to be certain whether he wants to lean into his daddy’s touch more or pull away from it, shivering despite the water’s comfortable heat and cursing his father’s name in English and broken, dialectically muddled French.

Enough time in the shower has passed now that Will’s constant quivering and squirming against him stirs his own flagged erection back to life. Hannibal has mercy on his poor boy at last, pulling Will flush against him and spinning them both around. Will’s hands slap against the wet tile to brace himself as Hannibal nudges his legs apart just wide enough to slip his own cock into the space between his boy’s thighs. He instinctively closes his legs more tightly again around it and moans at the slick, wet drag of it across his perineum and balls.

Hannibal rewards this behavior by telling Will what a good boy he is and wrapping his hand around the boy’s erection once again. They both come again relatively quickly in tight, squeezing pulls and erratic thrusts.

Equally exhausted afterwards, they both step out of the shower to towel off and turn in for the night. Too tired to question it tonight as he has on some nights previous, Will climbs into Hannibal’s bed and snuggles contentedly into his father’s arms.

Despite the night’s activities quickly catching up with him as well, Hannibal lies awake for some time afterwards, listening in the dark to his boy’s slow, deep breathing and relishing the warm, heavy weight of him against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, I'm trying to work on a one-shot for Halloween which maaaaaaay affect when the next chapter gets uploaded again? We'll be back to our regular scheduled programming the week after for sure though if that happens. 💕


	23. On a Breathless Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Missa Papae Marcelli](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgsfOSEvIVU&feature=emb_logo) by Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina, or the horniest misuse of a sacred mass ever because we're diving into Hannibal's mindset here and it's extra Extra 💯this week.

Hannibal has taken to leaving his own discarded shirts out “accidentally” when he takes the rest of their evening laundry to the hamper, usually draped over the back of a chair in plain view and within easy reach of what has become Will’s side of the bed. There are few sights more intently charged with both sweet, sensual eroticism and blatant domesticity than that of his son stretching out felinely as the covers slip down around his waist before sliding on his father’s shirt over nothing but a pair of his own boxer shorts in the morning, often charmingly misbuttoned with fumbling fingers and bleary eyes. Occasionally he will spot Will turning the collar up to hide his lovely face in it, breathing in deep, as comforted and addicted to the lingering scent of his father’s skin as Hannibal is to his.

Were he not a man gainfully employed and faithfully following an established work schedule on weekdays, their mornings likely wouldn’t stray far from bed at all for at least a solid hour or two past waking.

This morning, there is nothing preventing him from tugging his son back into his arms, uncaring if he stretches out the fabric of his own shirt when he grabs it and pulls Will to him, holding him close and nuzzling into his hair as he had on Christmas morning a seeming lifetime ago. Will giggles as he had then too. “G’morning to you too, Dad.”

“Happy Valentines Day, mon chéri,” he replies, tickling under the shirt until his angel gasps and squirms and grants him more of those silly giggles he is so endlessly fond of.

“It’s also, um, it’s almost the two week anniversary of us, uhmm…”

“Is it now?” Hannibal hums as if he hadn’t realized. How very adolescent it is, to count the weeks of their deepened intimacy together. He himself has counted the days, the hours, every breathless minute. Has he ever been this consumed by what he feels for another, this enraptured by another being before? Quite obviously not. How very strange it is, to acknowledge that this lightness in his chest is as much akin to the stirrings of first love within himself as it is for his Will.

Their gentle kisses are prickling, wet, and warm in the soft morning light, not meant to arouse into heightened passion but simply to appreciate and bask in each other’s company. It’s Will’s favorite kind of kissing, he has noticed, indulging him happily and often. He knows they have been moving more quickly than Will’s pace alone would have likely dictated and has to remind himself that they have time and to tap into his unusually depleted reserves of patience to find it.

“Dress casually but warmly enough to venture outside today after breakfast,” he says, pressing another kiss behind the boy’s ear as he reluctantly seeks to disentangle himself.

“Are we going somewhere?” the boy asks, charming in his disappointment and confusion as his daddy pulls away from him and climbs out of bed.

“You did not think we would stay wrapped up in each other in bed all day, did you?” he teases. As tempting as that is, Hannibal has made other plans for their first Valentines Day together.

Will blushes, sitting up. “Where are we going then?”

“Let’s not spoil the surprise just yet,” Hannibal tells him, tapping him lightly on the nose. “Now come downstairs. We are having arugula and frisée salad with poached egg whites and blueberry French toast.”

“Should I put on pants first?” his son asks, impishly certain already of the answer.

“Absolutely not,” he answers mock sternly.

“Then _you_ don’t get to put on a shirt either.” Teasing blue eyes rove greedily over his father’s bared chest and loose pajama pants.

“I could burn myself while cooking,” it seems prudent to mention even though he has no intention of disobeying such a flattering demand.

“You won’t.” This surety in his skill is also flattering. It’s true, as long as he maintains focus on the tasks at hand and doesn’t allow himself distraction with long shapely legs, also bare and so close within reach. Easier said than done but he is nothing if not confident in his own ability to face even this challenge.

Will is in charge of the coffee as usual now while Hannibal takes care of the rest. Most of the preparations were already completed in advance, such as the bread left to soak in the milk and egg yolk mixture overnight and the vinaigrette which only needs to be shaken again before adding it to the salad, allowing plenty of time for roving hands to occupy themselves with the aforementioned legs and firm buttocks attached to them while the French toast bakes in the oven.

_“Daddy,”_ his boy’s voice wavers and drags in not-quite complaint, smaller hands gripping more firmly around the mug held in front of him to keep from spilling it. Hannibal’s hands slide forward to the front of his thighs, fingers grazing and teasing just under the hems of his thin boxers, as he slots himself hip to hip behind the boy and lays a kiss under his jaw. “You said we have plans today.”

“I never said we were in any particular rush to leave, however.” He has no intention of ravishing Will before they’ve eaten, of course, but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy winding them both up a little in anticipation of a quick mutual send-off afterwards. He doesn’t mind waiting himself, but it would be cruel to tease a teenager so without the promise of bringing him to orgasm within the next hour or two. When Will is older, a little more experienced and in better control of his own bodily reactions, Hannibal will teach him more about the rewarding art of slow, drawn out edging. He’ll tie the boy down and mercilessly, lovingly torture him for hours on end without release. He’ll teach him sooner rather than later how to come without a single touch to his aching cock, how to come on command from just a word or even a look. He looks forward to the many ways in which they will work together to broaden his son’s horizons and expand his education further.

Will looks to him in confusion again when Hannibal plates their portions together on two extra large plates, one for the salad and one for the toast, and carries them both into the dining room to set at the head of the table while Will brings out the coffee. His eyes widen and the delightful blush returns when his father sits and pushes his own chair out farther than normal, patting his lap in invitation to make it perfectly clear where he expects Will to sit this morning.

“Are we really doing this?” the boy asks unsteadily even as he obediently slides onto Daddy’s lap. In response Hannibal lays another soft kiss on his throat and gathers a bite of crisp salad onto the only salad fork, resting it patiently against his boy’s plush bottom lip. Will opens up obediently and maintains their eye contact as he carefully chews, rolling his bottom lip into his mouth to lick up a stray droplet of vinaigrette. It’s intimate, sensual. His eyes crinkle, an early warning of the mischief swift to follow when he asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be making whooshing plane or choo-choo train noises too?”

Hannibal sets the fork down for a moment as he laughs, holding the boy in his lap steady as Will hides his own uncontrollable giggling against his daddy’s shoulder. “S-s-sorry. I guess I kinda ruined the moment there, didn’t I?” Hannibal pecks another kiss against his temple and takes a couple of bites of his own while Will regains control of his breathing.

There is still a lingering smirk on the boy’s mouth when he obediently opens again for another bite, this time of blueberries spread between maple and cinnamon-soaked layers of bread. The smile goes lax when Hannibal leans up to swipe the tip of his tongue over sticky lips, the scent of sweet milk and tart berries sharp on his nose and his taste buds when his tongue darts fleetingly inside.

They alternate bites and follow each one up with light, probing kisses to chase the taste on the other’s tongue, no longer laughing. With the last morsel gone, Hannibal silently encourages the boy to adjust from sitting to straddling with a wide hand splayed over his hip. Their next kiss deepens, breaths turning ragged as his son instinctively undulates against him and brings their thinly covered groins in tentative contact with each other.

Hannibal grasps the firm twin globes of his son’s ass and drags him downward to meet him on an upward thrust of his own hips, grinding them more roughly together. Will breaks the kiss and tosses his head back to choke out, “Oh, _g-god, Daddy,_ yes, god _please._ _”_ Their rutting turns more frantic, their kisses sloppier, and Will starts to tremble, tellingly close to coming in his underwear already. Hannibal will gladly follow him without shame, uncaring of the extra laundry for both of them. He ducks his head down and shifts the vee of Will’s open collar aside to suck a tender, possessive mark over his boy’s collarbone where his clothes will hide it, squeezing his ass to rock them against one another faster and harder.

He is quietly stunned when Will suddenly seizes his shoulders and forces them both to still. “W-wait, wait…” He doesn’t appear distressed or alarmed as he pauses to catch his breath again. “I want to try something…if that’s okay?” he says, beguilingly innocent and nervous. As if Hannibal would ever deny him anything.

“Of course, darling, anything you want.” Will kisses him sweetly on the mouth in thanks, then slides down off his father’s lap to kneel at his feet under the table. Hannibal’s breath catches, wondering.

Will leans forward, obviously still nervous, rubbing his face against his daddy’s chest like a cat and using the scent of his skin to calm himself down. Hannibal pets through his soft curls to provide additional comfort and encouragement. He won’t patronize the boy by pointing out that he needn’t push himself to do anything he isn’t ready for yet.

He raises his hips obligingly when thin fingers curl into his waistband. It is an interesting experience, to be the one bared to full nudity while Will remains half-dressed for once. The clever little thing folds Hannibal’s cotton pants to place under his own knees and provide added cushioning for them.

Will wraps a hand around him and tugs gently for a few strokes, getting a feel for the weight and girth of him and the slide of his foreskin with rapt, fascinated eyes. Hannibal breathes steadily and allows the slow, tentative exploration, in absolutely no rush at all. If Will does nothing more than this, it will still be more than he has attempted before and he has already promised himself he would take things more slowly with the boy from now on.

His son breathes in deep through his nose, catching the mingled scents of their arousals, and keeps his father’s foreskin pulled back as he leans in again to lap and kitten lick at the tip. Hannibal shocks himself with the ragged breath he sucks in, his fingers curling tightly around the arms of his chair as he starts to leak pre-ejaculate freely over the boy’s tongue. His boy makes a surprised and sweetly eager little growl at the back of his throat, rightfully taking this for the encouragement that it is, and envelops the tip fully within his mouth, suckling him. Hannibal’s hand presses lightly against Will’s cheek and rests there.

His boy makes another sweeter, softer sound, eyes fluttering closed, and leans in more to take his father in deeper, gently increasing the suction and caressing the underside of Daddy’s cock with his tongue. He is being wisely careful not to overwhelm himself on his first time giving fellatio and it takes every drop of considerable willpower Hannibal has not to thrust forward eager and rough into that beautiful mouth.

He forces himself to remain still even as Will begins to bob his head and try to ease himself into taking even more in, sliding his hand to the base of his daddy’s cock and squeezing, thumb brushing gently a couple of times against his balls. That he instinctively knows what to do without having to be instructed, just from memory of what Daddy has done a few times now for him, is a wonderful surprise and Hannibal could not be prouder. He releases a long groan, absorbed in the intoxicating sight and feeling of his Will’s lips wrapped tightly around him.

At the sound, Will looks up at him through long, hooded eyelashes, viscerally aware now of the power he has and the effect that he is having on his father, and tries to swallow around more of his length faster and more recklessly than before. He gags more than once around him now and his eyes water. The tears drive Hannibal to hold Will’s face between both hands, thumbs and index fingers curling around and rubbing the lobes of his ears, which astoundingly, _magnificently_ makes his boy’s eyes roll back and his mouth go laxer and looser to allow even more of him inside. He has already figured out before now that touching Will’s ears has an erogenous effect, but _this_ is lovely beyond what words can describe.

He holds the boy’s head in place and finally allows himself to thrust gently into that warm, wet suction, murmuring whispered praises and endearments when the angel between his legs takes it all without trying to pull back or complain even when he gags again and more tears spring from the corners of his eyes. In fact, a luscious moan wraps itself around Hannibal’s cock and the boy’s free hand falls from his daddy’s thigh to press flatly and squeeze against the front of his damp underwear, giving himself the friction he needs to grind against it in time with Daddy’s thrusts. He’s perfect. _He_ _’s_ _perfect._

For what may be the first time, Hannibal reaches orgasm first, his son’s name and a muttered curse in French on his tongue. A trail of semen leaks from the corner of his boy’s mouth, but he watches, panting, with pride and delight as his wonderful child swallows down the rest.

Will falls back against the rug under the table, gasping for breath and idly swiping away the cum trail from his jaw, the front of his boxers also significantly darker and damper than before. “Oh my god, Daddy,” he utters, his voice completely wrecked. “How do you taste so _good?_ _”_

Hannibal pushes his chair back and crouches to grab Will by the ankles and drag him out from the under the table, feeling positively barbaric for doing so, but that hardly matters when his son laughs hoarsely at this caveman-like treatment and leans up on his elbows to kiss him as soon as he is within reach. “Seriously, I-I didn’t think I’d like that so much. You know, from _this_ side of it. Is that why you do it to me all the time?” Hannibal kisses him again, then stands and helps the boy to his feet.

“We’ll have to shower now before we get dressed.” His own voice is also rougher despite having less cause for it.

“What about the dishes?” Will asks. Hannibal looks at the forgotten cups and sticky plates on the table.

“They’ll keep until after we’ve washed ourselves first,” he decides. Will hums and smiles, leaning up to kiss his father on the cheek.

“Happy Valentines Day, Daddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I am _not_ going to write every chapter from here on out as mostly self-indulgent smut.  
> Me: 🤡🤞


	24. Valentines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit late, but here at last is the next chapter. Today's song is another part of Vivaldi's Four Seasons, [La Primavera](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3LiztfE1X7E) (Spring).

Will stands close enough to the next painting to observe up close every brush stroke and stray fleck of paint on the canvas. Truthfully, he’s not that interested in this one, it’s just easier to stop himself from looking up with a giddy smile at his dad every five minutes and resist the urge to hold his hand as they walk if he feigns total absorption in the works on display. He reminds himself that to any outside observers he’s a son on an educational weekend outing with his father, not a boy in love excited to get out of the house for once and on a real date on Valentine’s.

His lips still tingle from earlier, the taste of blueberries, sweat, and salt fresh on his tongue. He can’t believe he’s already thinking about when he’ll get to do that again. He can admit to himself that on some level, he secretly used to think himself better than all those other teenage boys who think about nothing but sex all the time, too smart and too interested in better, grander things in the world in general to waste his time on more than a quick, loose-limbed jerk in the shower every morning after breakfast before going about his day as normal. Now he’s standing in an art museum, something that would normally have his full attention as he fires a million questions at his dad just to hear his take on the myriad works hung along the walls, wondering whether or not it would be too greedy to go to his knees again as soon as he and Daddy get home. Madness.

It’s actually kind of funny how much their date really does resemble something like a school field trip. Even without Will’s vocal encouragement, Daddy knows so much and loves to share assorted interesting facts about seemingly random and unconnected pieces, though particularly anything from the Renaissance and ancient Greece or Rome, just like Will imagined he would on their first night out together.

Christmas Eve was less than two months ago, he realizes with a strange jolt. So much is the same now as he had pictured it might be then, only he had never imagined then that he would soon find out what it felt like to come apart in the man’s arms and warm his cock in his mouth, swallowing down thousands if not millions of untapped, unspent potential for half-siblings that will never be born, joyfully unburdened and seeded within the stomach lining of Hannibal Lecter’s first-and-only-born instead of a womb, nourishing and sating him better than the sweet toast and crisp salad had.

As it should be. He certainly cannot envision sharing what they have with another kid, or anyone else for that matter. His dad definitely has no business planting his seed into any more wombs _or_ mouths if Will gets any say. He’d fucking kill anyone else who tries to get that close and intimate with his daddy.

“You have been staring at this particular engraving for some time, mon amour.”

“Um. Where is this?” Will asks without looking away from the engraved print he has been staring sightlessly through. Better to feign more interest in it than he feels _(none)_ than admit to the morbid, grotesque _(triumphant, righteous)_ slant of his current thoughts.

“It appears to be the stone archway into Druid Hill Park, which coincidentally is on our agenda for today.”

A stroll around the park sounds a lot better than sticking around here while Will’s concentration is too fractured to fully enjoy it. Another day, he might ask Dad to bring him back here and to some of the other museums in town. Baltimore is known for having a ton of them apparently, so many that it will probably take a while for them to run out of interesting spots to visit, and that’s not even taking into account other cities like D.C. being within driving distance as well.

“Park” turns out to be a rather misleading name for what seems to Will more like a huge grassy _district_ of the city. Sure, there’s a decent number of people enjoying a brisk nature walk together even at this time of year, whether it’s couples holding hands or kids playing in the snow, or the usual joggers and bird watchers feeding the pigeons who stubbornly stay for the free food in spite of the cold. But it’s apparently massive enough to also hold multiple other venues as well, including an entire zoo and a conservatory. The latter is their main destination for today, little pockets of spring and summer in its greenhouse habitats surrounded by a blanket of white on the ground and slate grey skies above.

It’s here that Will actually grows a little more talkative than his daddy. The conservatory is beautiful and they both have enough interest in the varied environments within to talk about them at length, but where most of Daddy’s knowledge seems to be about the many types of flora blooming inside, the main focus of the exhibits, Will has a lot more to say about the few species of fauna that are allowed to thrive alongside the blooming hothouse flowers and crowning trees. Soon enough the spring will melt the snow outside for good and the rest of Baltimore will stir to life once more, but for now it’s mainly here that Will gets to indulge for the first time in chattering away about one of his own unique interests.

He’s having a lot more fun than he expected trying to identify the various insects based only on appearance and which greenhouse climate they’re nesting in and doesn’t realize at first that he’s begun to dominate the conversation with bug talk. It’s not until Daddy helps him stand and patiently, amusedly brushes the dirt off his knees for the third time that he thinks maybe he’s been paying the little critters a little too much attention. That’s a little embarrassing, but unlike most his dad doesn’t seem bored or put off by Will’s fascination with insects. Instead of abruptly cutting himself off as he normally would after realizing he’s been going on for a while, he finishes what he was telling Hannibal about crypt beetles.

“Did you know their larvae actually look a lot like mealybugs? Pure white and covered in all these…” He wriggles his fingers. “Kinda squiggly looking appendages all over their bodies.”

“Quite a useful trait, to be able to blend in naturally with one’s favorite type of prey.” Will nods along happily with the observation.

“They’re not from this part of the world originally either. They must have been released here intentionally to keep the mealybug population down.”

“A noble and thankless endeavor, I’m sure, despite making their new home a more vibrant and happier place one devoured pest at a time.”

“At least they get a steady supply of free meals out of the deal.” Will is almost skipping at this point as they walk, newly re-energized by their surroundings and good conversation. It is nice to escape the metaphor-laden literary critiques and psychoanalytical discussions they get into sometimes, especially when going over his homework assignments, to just chat over a plain straightforward topic Will already knows plenty about on his own, maybe even more than his father does. “Speaking of, uh, it’s about lunchtime…”

“Getting hungry again, darling?”

“No, actually.” Will stops on the stone path facing his father, head tilted, eyes widened, puppy pout mode fully engaged. “But I saw we passed a café on the way here. Maybe we could stop in for a drink, grab a muffin or something while we’re there?”

Hannibal sighs. “Why is it, caro mio, that every time you make that face I know you’re about to ask for something utterly ruinous to a good nutritional diet?”

“Mm, could be because it’s about the only thing you might actually tell me no for?”

“Are you daring to suggest that I may spoil you too much?” his dad asks, curling a finger under the boy’s chin.

“Ask me again after you buy me a coffee.” Will squeaks at the sudden sharp but playful swat to his behind. “D-Dad!” He darts his gaze around quickly to make sure there’s no one around who might have seen or heard anything, though he knows the man wouldn’t really be that careless.

“Naughty children get spanked, William. I’m only disciplining my wayward boy as I see fit, as is my responsibility and privilege as a parent.” Will rubs his hands over his face in a vain attempt to disguise the blush he can feel heating up his cheeks and starts walking again without comment, afraid to tempt the man once more by bringing the subject up again. One of them has to stay mindful and vigilant in public to keep them from getting caught.

“You must learn to relax when we’re out of the house, darling,” Hannibal says, putting an arm around him as they meander along the path, clearly able to tell what he’s thinking. “The key to avoiding scrutiny is to absolve yourself of any lingering guilt or shame, thus clearing yourself of any appearance of such.”

“You get a lot of practice hiding your dirty deeds by flaunting them out in the open?” Will snarks. He’s reluctant to shrug the arm off despite the nagging voice at the back of his head telling him that he probably should.

“Are you ashamed of us, Will?” Will nearly stops in place again, only the careful casualness of the question and Hannibal’s arm around him as he continues forward keeping Will moving too.

_“No!”_ he whisper-shouts despite knowing they’re the only ones in the greenhouse at the moment. “No, I don’t, I just…” His shoulders loosen as the minute tightness in Hannibal’s features eases away. _“I worry.”_

“That’s a habit we’ll have to train you out of.” Will chuckles despondently. “A little wariness is good, love. It keeps the senses sharp and alert, helps us come up with creative solutions to problems before they arise and keeps us prepared for anything. But too much is unhealthy. It can have the opposite effect and wear you down to the point of dulling your senses to the real dangers present.” He taps Will’s nose, as he so often does when he wants to make a point while keeping the mood light. “We should start your self-defense training soon. Regular exercise is an excellent reliever of stress.”

“Is that not what we’ve been doing?” He smirks, silently applauding himself for daring to tease like this despite the way it instantly shoots his heart rate up like he expects the police to immediately kick in the glass and put them in handcuffs and separate cells for life for the crime of making double entendres. His dad smiles and brushes a kiss over his forehead, which doesn’t exactly help, though at least _some_ of his overwrought nerves are due to a sense of renewed giddiness now.

Making their way back to the car later, they stop for a bit to watch a group of college students in the middle of putting on an impromptu Shakespeare in the Park style performance, _Twelfth Night_ from the looks of it. Halfway through a scene, a cute little white Pomeranian escapes its leash and runs up to joyfully bark and prance with them, to the great amusement of the onlookers. The actors make a good recovery by improvising lines to make it seem like the dog is another supposed hallucination Feste aims to convince Malvolio isn’t real before trying to shoo it back towards its owner.

The dog runs a semi-circle around the little troupe in the opposite direction instead, towards Will and Hannibal. The boy drops into a crouch and makes encouraging noises to draw the dog to him, and immediately finds his hands full of warm, rambunctious, fluffy white joy. He happily pets and coos and keeps the excited pup’s focus on him until the grateful owner jogs over to scoop “Sir Leopold the Floofy Terror” up into her arms moments later. His heart melts into a puddle of goo when his dad, too dignified to crouch in the snow beside Will, nonetheless reaches out and gracefully accepts Sir Leopold sniffing and licking his expensive gloves, petting him in the girl’s arms while she thanks them before turning away to take the spirited dog somewhere less crowded.

Smiling, Dad helps him to his feet again and gestures with a simple head tilt that they should go. They keep hold of each other’s hands for the rest of the walk back. Will feels like he could float on air.

“Daddy, can we get a dog?” he asks, knowing he sounds like a stereotype of the eager child in a perfect all-American family and not caring.

“We’ll see,” his daddy responds, which Will has learned over the past few months is a far more encouraging sign than those same words uttered by most other adults.

Will turns a grateful smile to him when he also pulls into the parking lot for the café he’d mentioned instead of driving past. He chooses a bagel with lox and capers instead of a muffin to go with his mocha and Daddy picks over a plain fruit cup with yogurt and a regular latte. They sit at a cozy corner table and discuss stage productions debuting next month they may want to attend since Hannibal promised to take him to a play one day.

After coffee, Will convinces him that they should go all out on the classic date experience with dinner and a movie as well. They decide on a matinee showing of the least insufferable looking film, a generic sci-fi horror that mostly takes place underwater. He personally wouldn’t have minded seeing a comedy instead, but the look Daddy had given the movie poster outside as if Adam Sandler in a ruffled shirt and curly mullet wig had personally offended him on a deeper level, while hilarious all on its own, had been enough to convince Will to have mercy on him.

Daddy takes him to a fancy seafood restaurant for dinner, where they tear the movie apart and talk about the philosophical implications of the premise that should have been explored better through the plot over a fig and pomegranate salad with honey vinaigrette, oysters on the half-shell, and crab cakes drizzled in saffron aioli. By the time Daddy suggests they should have dessert at home, Will is more than ready to agree. He’s started having thoughts regarding the low, draped white tablecloth that he logically knows couldn’t actually provide the privacy he wants the way they always seem to on television.

It’s all he can do just to keep his hands to himself in the car as well, sternly telling himself not to be a distraction on the road. Somewhere between the oysters and the saffron cakes, he started daydreaming about Daddy’s thick uncut cock again, and now he _wants_ with a desperation that surprises him.

He pounces as soon as they’re in the house, shocking a grunted laugh from the older man as he pushes him against the door and stands on tiptoes to ravage his mouth with hungry kisses. “Darling, _darling,_ _”_ the man says, sending conflicting messages when he greedily palms Will’s ass with one hand even as he curls the other around Will’s shoulder and pushes him back with gentle force. _“Patience,”_ he purrs. “There’s still dessert to get through first.”

“You were actually talking about _food?_ _”_ Will groans. Daddy huffs another laugh and pecks a chaste kiss to his nose, somehow managing to evade Will’s attempt to claim his mouth with his own again in the process. _“Daaaad,”_ he whines, and is suddenly rewarded with his father’s darkened, hooded gaze.

“Wait upstairs for me. I’ll be along shortly,” he orders, making it sound both stern and hot in a way that _does things_ to Will’s insides. His body is obeying before his brain can catch up with what’s going on.

Upstairs, he impatiently shucks off his pants and unbuttons his shirt, feeling inexplicably _naughty_ as he undoes the last button. It’s strange, he’s gotten naked many time before now in this bedroom over the past two weeks, and Dad didn’t tell him _not_ to get undressed, but it feels suddenly like he’s not _supposed_ to for some reason yet. He bites his lip, kicking the pants awkwardly away, and gets on the bed without taking anything else off. He sits cross-legged at first, then lays back, keeping somewhat upright on his elbows, one leg splayed out while the other stays folded up near him. Does it look sexy or just weird? He can’t decide, but hearing Daddy’s footsteps approach less than a minute later, he doesn’t adjust again, figuring he may as well just commit to the pose.

_“Oh,”_ he giggles helplessly when Daddy shows up with nothing more than a glass of champagne to share and a bowl of strawberries with the leaves and stems removed and a smaller bowl of cream balanced on top.

“You are the one who asked for the full ‘classic date night’ experience,” his father says with a smirk, setting the items down on the nightstand. His own shirt is unbuttoned only at the collar and wrists, sleeves pushed back not quite to his elbows. He sits beside the boy and lays a hand over his bent knee. “I distinctly remember telling you only to _wait_ for me up here. I said nothing about removing any clothing.”

Will blushes. “You didn’t specify that I couldn’t,” he points out, not entirely understanding why it’s important that he make the distinction. His father hums.

“That is true,” he says, sliding the hand on Will’s knee up his thigh, barely skirting the hem of his boxers. Will’s breathing picks up, but Dad doesn’t do anything more than that. With his other hand, he twirls a plump strawberry through the whipped cream and brings it to Will’s lips, choosing to feed him by hand for the second time that day.

If this is how Daddy wants to play it, well, Will can play too. He parts his lips and closes them again around just the tip of the strawberry, letting some of the cream smear as he tongues over the fruit. He keeps eye contact with the man as he finally bites down, viscerally reminded of his dream with the edible roses. He doesn’t lick away the cream on his mouth either, knowing Daddy will take care of it.

Daddy eats the second half of the strawberry like he’s trying to suck the taste of Will from it, then leans in to rub his thumb along Will’s lip to wipe away the cream as Will knew he would, bringing the thumb to his own mouth to lick it clean. He leans back to reach for the bowl again and Will springs up with a frustrated, needy sound, grabbing hold of the man by the lapels of his shirt.

“You’re being remarkably ill-behaved today, young man,” Daddy says as if he minds at all. But he doesn’t, Will can tell. He’s enjoying this. “If we ignore our dessert now, the cream will deflate and the champagne will go flat.”

“I don’t care about that. I don’t want the food, I just want you!” Will is distantly aware that he’s being uncharacteristically bratty and isn’t entirely sure what brought this on. He only knows what he wants and that Daddy is _teasing_ him for it, which is just unfair.

“Indulge me only a few more bites, mon chéri, then I’m all yours.” Will pouts but does as he’s told, humming in surprised delight at the taste of the next strawberry, dipped this time directly into the champagne. Another one goes in the champagne straight away because of the response it elicits. Hannibal drags this one along Will’s lips, coating them in it like lip gloss, then bends his head to run his tongue along the seam of the boy’s mouth like a hummingbird darting in for the taste of sweet nectar. He pulls away before Will can turn it into a proper kiss and bites into the strawberry himself, eyes darkening again. He reaches for yet another strawberry.

Will leans up again and kisses his throat, unbuttoning the man’s shirt with the sound reasoning in mind that Daddy _technically_ didn’t tell him not to do this either. Daddy doesn’t stop him and waits until his shirt is unbuttoned and Will is raking needful fingers through his chest hair and scenting him, laying soft prickling kisses at the man’s sternum, before he gently pushes the boy onto his back and kneels between his legs, holding aloft an extra large strawberry dripping with both champagne and cream. He’s looking a little unsteadier now, _finally_.

Some cream slides off and drips onto the boy’s stomach, causing his muscles to contract instinctively, but Hannibal pays it no mind. Will sucks in air between his teeth in surprise and expectation when Daddy swirls the strawberry first around Will’s right nipple, then his left. He slides the strawberry next into Will’s slightly parted mouth and leaves it there. The boy holds it there between his lips without biting down, as he senses Daddy wants him to, swallowing remnants of champagne and cream as it melts on his tongue.

He sucks in a deep breath as Daddy flicks his tongue over the first nipple, teasing it to hardness before sucking it into his mouth and softly nibbling. His hands fall to his dad’s shoulders as his other nipple gets the same treatment, his father’s mouth trailing spit over his chest as he dives back and forth between them, sucking progressively harder and hungrier each time he switches so Will is already desperately trembling and bucking beneath him, puckering his mouth as he struggles not to bite the fruit even if he’s still unsure what game they’re playing with it yet.

To distract himself from the pleasure-pain—Daddy’s _biting_ harder now too, though only at the pale skin around his areolas, leaving the pressure off his hardened, reddened nubs and sensitive rings of flesh surrounding them except when he lifts up enough to pinch them between his lips and suckle like he really is trying to milk him there—Will wraps his legs around his father’s waist and undulates against him, moaning around the turgid red berry in his mouth. His hands clumsily push the shirt away from Hannibal’s shoulders.

Daddy suddenly lifts up from Will’s chest, panting down at the boy obediently sucking on the strawberry still, and lowers himself to take the other half of the strawberry into his mouth, lips sealed against each other’s. They both bite down at the same time, chewing and swallowing quickly so they can slide their tongues together in a messy kiss. Will can feel juice trailing from the corner of his mouth and down his chin to pool behind his ear. Seeing it seems to drive his father over the edge. He quickly paws off the rest of their clothing, just as impatient now as Will had been earlier.

He laps up the juice on Will’s face before sinking lower, licking away the “forgotten” drops of cream on Will’s stomach, then lower again, giving no warning or preamble this time before thoroughly lavishing his wet, sticky tongue over Will’s pink, puckered hole. Will hides his face behind his hands and immediately keens, as embarrassed as he had been the last time Daddy did this but also quickly overcoming that shame as Daddy flicks his tongue and licks and sucks, slowly making him loose and sopping wet. He doesn’t touch Will’s cock and slaps the boy’s hands away when he tries to take hold of himself.

After a while, he sits up and reaches toward the nightstand again. Will thinks he’s going to grab another strawberry or take a sip of the champagne, but instead he opens the drawer and pulls out a jar of lubricant. Will stiffens, having just enough of an idea of what that might be for to suddenly get nervous.

“It’s alright, darling,” his dad reassures him. “I promise we won’t be pushing your boundaries farther than you can handle tonight.” Will bites his lip and nods, and tries to relax against the mattress once again. “Lift up your knees for me, love.” Will’s throat bobs but he does as he’s told, planting his feet firmly on the mattress.

Dad kisses him, the musky taste distracting as his finger rubs light circles around the rim of Will’s hole, getting it wet and sticky with lube. Minutes pass before it starts to gently probe inside. Will gasps, trying to stay relaxed like Daddy tells him to, grabbing hold of the man’s other arm around the elbow as a clutch for balance. His father is so careful and patient that it doesn’t really hurt, it just feels a bit uncomfortable and odd. He reapplies more lube once the finger starts to stick more than glide and slides it easily back in.

The last bit of tension in Will’s muscles finally eases and the boy breathes out a soft sigh. Nothing has really changed, his father hasn’t even done anything to change the pace or angle, but inexplicably once he gets used to the sensation it starts to seem _really good_. His eyes flutter open and shut. Daddy gives him a pleased, lazy smirk and trails soft butterfly kisses along the inner side of his knee and lower thigh.

Daddy’s finger continues the same pattern for a few seconds longer, then curls and suddenly makes him feel much fuller there, brushing upward against him in a way that makes him gasp louder than before. “Oh, _oh._ _”_ It keeps pressing there for a moment, making Will shiver and twitch, then the finger comes out so Daddy can reapply more lube once again before sliding it home one more time, wasting no time in probing straight for that spot once more.

His finger curls and pushes against the same spot continuously, massaging until a stream of incoherent babbling starts to tumble from Will’s lips against his volition and the boy feels like he’s going to shake apart at the seams. Will has to grab hold of his own ankles just to keep his legs from flailing out.

“Have you heard of prostate milking, my love?” Daddy asks him, voice rough.

Will tries to shake his head, but it feels so loose and empty, he’s not sure it’s really attached to his neck anymore. _“Uhn-uhhhhhhnnh!”_

“Look at yourself,” his father gruffly commands. Will manages to open his eyes and loll his head enough to obey and sees his cock dribble a thick, milky line of fluid down to his torso. He moans loudly. Daddy continues to finger him mercilessly as he leans in to lap up the fluid gathered there before sucking the head of Will’s dick into his mouth and swirling his tongue around to lick up the rest. Will screams and comes faster than Daddy bobs his head lower to swallow around the rest of his dick.

He lays there panting, starting to twitch and wince after a few seconds when Daddy doesn’t let up on the sucking or fingering right away. He stops both when he hears the boy’s hiss of discomfort, shuffling upward until he’s kneeling over the boy’s middle, his beautiful, leaking red cock looming in his son’s vision. “May I ask…” he starts to say, panting deeply. He doesn’t get the words out fully before Will gives a needy whine and takes greedy hold of his father’s ass, trying to urge his hips forward with his own waning strength as he drops his mouth open.

Daddy sinks his cock gratefully into Will’s eager waiting mouth, groaning a string of curses and compliments in Italian that would make Will blush and duck his head bashfully if his face wasn’t being sloppily and vigorously fucked by the man crouched above him. They’ve only done this once before this morning, yet Daddy already knows that Will likes the way he uses his mouth like this. Or maybe he just likes it this way himself and the alignment of their preferences here is a happy coincidence. Either way, Will swallows again as Daddy comes down his throat not half a minute later. He must have _really_ liked fingering Will to be this gone so fast.

Will coughs as Daddy’s softening penis slips from his mouth. Daddy drops beside him and passes the champagne glass over, murmuring to drink slowly or the bubbles will make it worse. Will passes it back after only a couple of sips, thinking he’d much prefer water at this moment.

He guzzles down the water Daddy brings him a few minutes later once his legs work again, barely even grunting in awkward discontent as the man gently scrubs a damp washcloth over various parts of his anatomy. He snuggles up contentedly against his father when he returns to lay beside him again. The bowl of strawberries is moved to Hannibal’s blanket covered lap so the two of them can lazily finish it off together.

Daddy didn’t brush his teeth this time after coming back from the restroom. Will kisses him back with the taste of strawberries and his own sweaty musk on his tongue anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, foolishly thinking Valentines Day meant the lovemaking this chapter would be all sweet and tasteful and intimate with very little outrageous excitement or acrobatics.
> 
> These two: You fool. You absolute rube. How dare you underestimate our shared horniness.


	25. A Small Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up for a little teenage angst? Well too bad, Nirvana's [You Know You're Right](https://youtu.be/qv96yJYhk3M) very much reflects my mood in light of the _struggle_ this chapter has been to write and now all of you must suffer too. 😭

Despite Hannibal’s best attempts at distraction and deflection, his boy is a stubborn little thing who holds onto ideas with a dogged determination that at times can be as frustrating as they are endearing. After that luxuriant, sinful Valentines weekend when they finally emerge again from the bedroom to return to the normalcy of their weekly routines, Will somehow becomes convinced that the best way to push forward his agenda of having a pet is to prove responsibility for one by dedicating his own time and resources to the matter. Had he known it would come to this, Hannibal would have simply gifted him a puppy at Christmas in spite of his own misgivings about bringing an animal into the house. The inconvenient detail of Will’s previous blue collar upbringing, however, is that he easily becomes overwhelmed and sometimes nearly offended by his father’s attempts to spoil him without direct merit, a trait Hannibal must continue to slowly chip away at over time.

He has given more thought to this little conundrum since Will first broached the subject of a part-time job with him a month ago, and after finalizing the particulars with his lawyer to ensure everything about the arrangement is aboveboard, he presents his idea to Will the next time the boy starts talking about looking through the classifieds and even makes the appalling suggestion that Hannibal drop him off at the nearest Blockbuster in the afternoon so he can fill out an application.

“A secretary?” his boy asks with the same skepticism one usually shows on being told that an incomplete high school education is sufficient qualification for a career in rocket science or brain surgery, believing the lie that the thankless toil of retail and customer service requires less skilled labor than the tasks of booking appointments by telephone and filing insurance claims.

“In truth, I have had need for a new assistant for many months but never found myself with enough time to begin the interviewing process,” he says. “Last one followed her heart to the United Kingdom sometime around mid-November and has not yet been replaced.” In truth, he’d had no intention of replacing her at all and considered himself more than adequate to the task of keeping up with his own schedule and paperwork indefinitely, but the convenience of having someone to assist him in this again would be a useful bonus perk to his true goal, which is simply to keep delicate pianist’s fingers away from rough or demeaning work for minimum wage and an even closer, near constant eye on his son throughout the day.

Will’s skepticism remains even when he agrees to go to the office with him on a day he has no appointments. It’s his first time coming here and he looks around with much the same fascination he once had for his new home, climbing the ladder to the second-floor balcony without hesitation, a marked improvement to his initial reluctance to touch anything or make himself at home when he first moved in.

Hannibal shows him where things are filed and patients’ notes are kept, the secretary desk and typewriter out in the waiting area he has not yet put away in storage and now no longer intends to, how to work the fax machine and forward calls to his own line and other such details. His son asks clever, practical questions and seems more interested in accepting his father’s offer as the tour continues.

“You haven’t explained this yet,” he notes, eyeing a small TV monitor beside his computer in one of the backrooms, especially the nodules and dials of the small black box the television is connected to.

“For viewing footage on the security cameras, though there rarely is cause to do so,” Hannibal explains, trying to divert his attention back to other devices he is more likely to make use of.

“But I didn’t see any cameras, and there’s no recording equipment attached,” Will points out, peering around behind other devices on the desk to make sure. “It can’t be a good deterrent for late night break-ins or anything if it only shows you a live feed.” He turns on the television.

In the intervening seconds between one long blink and the next, during which Will stares at a static black-and-white image of their own kitchen, it occurs to Hannibal that in his own enthusiasm he neglected to account for his son’s natural curiosity, and more importantly his sense of self-containment and desire for certain freedoms and autonomy. Had he considered it, he might have privately dismantled and tucked away his home surveillance system prior to inviting Will to come to work with him.

He makes no comment nor attempts to stop him as Will presses the switch to change to another camera and finds himself looking at the dining room. His eyes dart around, taking in the strange angle and likely making note of where the hidden camera is located based upon that. Again, and now they are monitoring the study. Now the den. Now Will’s bedroom. He stops here and sucks in a breath through his nose, his eyes slipping closed and a hand reaching up to rub at his temple as if to stave off a headache forming there.

“How long have these been up?” his son asks, quiet but with a heated warble to his voice which betrays the calm he projects.

“Since before you moved in,” Hannibal assures him. Since only a few days before he brought Will home, more precisely, but the boy has no way of guessing this and Hannibal has no intention of enlightening him to that fact. He had originally installed it as a way to ensure he would know right away if Will ever happened to stumble upon the secret cellar while he was away from home. “For a little peace of mind, I need only check it on occasion to ensure all is well at home in my absence.”

“And you didn’t think this might be something you should tell me about?” Will spins to face him, eyes flashing in that so lovely, righteous shine they get when he feels that his boundaries have been overstepped. “I had no idea! I could have—could have been traipsing around the house _naked_ or something while you were gone at any time!”

“I certainly would not have minded the free show,” the man smirks, knowing it is perhaps unwise to provoke when Will is already working himself up into a tantrum.

“Take me home,” Will snaps, turning away from him. So demanding. Hannibal would consider bending him over his knee for it if he wasn’t sure the boy would consider it an unforgivable trespass at this moment. Will is entitled to his anger, for all that Hannibal is not the least bit sorry to have been monitoring him this way for months.

The drive home is silent. Will sits rigidly in the passenger seat, breathing a little too evenly, head leant back against the head rest to stare up at the ceiling of the car rather than look at his father or any of their passing surroundings, as if to properly savor the purity of his own righteousness without input or distraction.

The boy marches into the house ahead of Hannibal and heads for the study first. Hannibal finds him rooting around one of the decorative glass cabinets, carelessly pushing curios and trinkets aside until he finds the small hidden camera along the bottom shelf and ruthlessly yanks it out. He winces at the harsh scraping sound that indicates likely damage to the wall socket and small hole drilled into the shelf where the cord had been run through, but does not protest even as Will continues his determined tour of the house, uprooting cameras in each room one by one and leaving disarray wherever he goes, until finally he heaps together a small pile of electronics on the dining room table, still refusing to look up into his father’s eyes as Hannibal joins him there.

“Is this all of them?” Hannibal silently counts them and nods in affirmation. Will stares at him hard then, searching his face and body language for a lie. His shoulders sag and some of the tension drains away when he doesn’t find one, but Hannibal is not fool enough to believe this means all is forgiven yet.

“You’re really stupid, you know that?” Hannibal raises his eyebrows at this sudden insult, but though every line of Will’s body is still etched in indignant anger, the wet shine of his eyes betrays emotion that makes him wish to gather his son up in his arms if only the boy would allow it. “ _Even the bedrooms?_ _”_ he hisses. “What if someone really did break into your office some night and checked that security system for evidence to get rid of only to see _us? Together?_ Did you even once think of that?”

It is perhaps tactless to smile, as the boy’s narrow-eyed scowl attests, but the presented scenario is so implausible and endearing in the portrait it paints of Will’s fears that he can’t quite help it. “Darling,” he says placatingly. “That would require quite a lot of suppositions about your imagined burglar. That they would get past the built-in alarm system which is rearmed every evening for one. For another, that they both know of our connection and would be foolish enough to attempt blackmail for a presumed crime which they have no proof of when none of the footage from those cameras has ever been recorded on tape.” Or that they would live for long after seeing his son in such a compromising state.

“You just have an answer for everything, don’t you?” Will grinds his teeth together. Hannibal grasps his jaw to gently ease them apart before he does damage to himself, but Will jerks sharply away and pushes him back, brushing past him into the kitchen. Hannibal sighs, gaze falling to the forlorn-looking little cameras scattered on the table. He’ll stow them away in storage for the time being. They may prove useful installed elsewhere later, perhaps repurposed as actual security cameras at one of his other properties, though it is just as likely they’ll simply gather dust on the shelf over time. He never saw a need for them before learning he would soon be opening his home to another.

He follows Will into the kitchen. The boy is making himself a plate of sandwiches along with a glass of milk. “Do you intend to skip dinner this evening?” Silence as Will sweeps up his impromptu meal into his hands and heads upstairs, closing his bedroom door behind him, is the only answer. Hannibal simply rolls up his sleeves and gets started on making dinner for one.

He does not see his son for the rest of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice we have a new Wattpad translation listed in the work's beginning notes! Quick reminder to all that I will probably say yes to translator requests 99% of the time, just please be sure to ask first and give me a chance to vet it if it's off-site. 💖
> 
> Also, apologies that I didn't respond to comments from the last couple of chapters. I promise I read, internalized, and adored them all, I've just been on a mental health break since late last year and didn't have the spoons to write back. 😭 We're back in business now though, bay-bee! 💖💖


	26. Bribes Make the Best Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm vibing with Fleetwood Mac again, so here's [Dreams.](https://youtu.be/Y3ywicffOj4)

Hannibal is instantly on alert when he awakes in the middle of the night, his instincts screaming about a possible intruder and the cold empty spot beside him that means his son is not right where he can protect him. He breathes in deeply and relaxes, recognizing the scent and knowing then where the feeling of being watched comes from, no mysterious presence come to wrench away what is his after all. He shifts in bed and opens his eyes, unsurprised to find Will standing at the foot of the bed in the dark, watching over him.

Will doesn’t move or speak, yet Hannibal knows he is awake and not merely sleepwalking. After a long moment of simply gazing at one another in the moonlight, Hannibal turns down the covers and opens his arms in hopeful invitation. Will fidgets then, shifting back and forth uncertainly on his feet, the desire to curl up with his daddy as offered plain on his softly shadowed face.

His expression firms up, though his eyes are shining in the dark. He shakes his head once, turns, and exits the bedroom on feet as light as when he entered. The door clicks shut behind him. Hannibal sighs, readjusts the blankets again, and stares up at the ceiling with an implacable solemn frown. It is uncharacteristically difficult to shut his mind off and return to slumber.

In the morning, Will comes downstairs and joins him for breakfast, giving noncommittal hums in response to his father’s attempts to cajole him into conversation. _Wherever could he have learned such an effortlessly cruel tactic?_ the man thinks in bitter irony. Sneaking around in the dark and withholding affection as punishment. Truly he is his father’s son. What’s to be done about this? He ponders as he clears the dishes while Will showers upstairs.

He blinks back surprise as he enters the study a half-hour later to bid Will goodbye before heading to his office and finds the boy there unusually well-dressed. Normally he would be barefooted in nothing more than comfortable jeans and a graphic T-shirt with an open flannel thrown on over it, perhaps already sitting on criss-crossed legs on the couch glancing over one of his reading assignments for the day. Today he is leaned against the back of the sofa in slacks and one of the new sweater vests Hannibal bought him for Christmas over a white button-up, glasses cutting his line of vision in half and arms folded in front of his chest.

“You wanted me to start today right?” the boy asks almost defensively, the most Hannibal has heard of his voice since yesterday evening. He does his best to temper the smile that wants to form as he nods agreeably, not wanting this tentatively offered olive branch to snap under the weight of his relief.

Will is still a bit cold to him during the ride over and throughout the morning at his office, polite, obedient, and professional as if their relationship is truly no more than that of employer and employee. He works on his homework at his desk between patients’ visits when he’s finished with other duties. The patients are surprised but overall charmed by the polite young boy who smiles at them just so as he signs them in and asks them if they’d like a glass of water while they wait to enter Hannibal’s domain at the exact minute of their appointment time. Many of them are curious but know better than to ask personal questions during their sessions, opting instead to carefully mine information out of Will himself during the waiting periods. The walls here are not perfectly soundproofed, deliberately so, such that while Hannibal cannot discern the contents of these conversations, he can make out the soft murmur of voices from the other side of the door.

Hannibal sits stiffly and resists the impulse to stand at the door to hear better. He does not snap the neck of anyone who is subject to Will’s polite smile in jealousy of them receiving any smile at all when Will has hardly looked at him today. More and more the perceived olive branch appears closer to a cruel taunt and continued punishment. What a vicious thing his darling can be, and he cannot even be sure that Will is doing it intentionally. It distracts him well into the afternoon when it is time to break for lunch.

He has no appointment immediately following his lunch break, allowing for just a wide enough window of time to enact his plan if he skips this meal. Will retrieves his own box from the insulated bag Hannibal brought and looks on curiously as his father neglects his own and dons his coat instead.

“I have an errand to attend to which may run longer than an hour,” Hannibal explains, placing the handwritten sign in the curtained window which denotes that the office is currently closed for lunchtime before locking the front door. “You may accept phone calls again when the hour is up, but please do not allow visitors inside until I return.”

“Okay.” Will spoons yogurt into his mouth with a frown but doesn’t ask for clarification or engage in conversation any further than this. Hannibal leaves through the patients’ exit, double checking that it is locked against anyone entering from the outside as always before he gets into the Bentley and drives off.

He gathers general supplies first despite uncertainty regarding final specifications that would be ideal for some of them, erring on the side of caution because he deems it best to save the most important package for pickup last. This last takes the longest as he lingers over the choices, trying to determine which he feels his beloved will like best.

Having made the perfect selection, he returns to the office and unlocks the front door, carrier in hand.

“Hey,” his son greets without looking up, jotting a note in the planner book in front of him. “You have—” He stops giving his father a presumed scheduling update and looks up, startled, when the parcel Hannibal is holding whines at the sound of his voice. “What. _What?_ _”_

“Come greet the new addition to our family, darling.” The way his boy practically leaps out of his chair and rushes around the side of the desk as Hannibal places the carrier on the ground has him smiling impossibly wide, premature though he knows his victory celebration to be. He unlatches the carrier door as Will drops to his knees in front of it, and out tumbles the quivering, excited puppy with equal enthusiasm and a fair bit of clumsiness as her speed has her nearly stumbling over her own feet.

She correctly identifies the kneeling boy as her new playmate and companion and is on him instantly, hind claws slipping over his lap with her front paws pressed to his chest as she sniffs and licks every bit of skin she can reach at his face and neck. _“Oh my gosh.”_ His boy giggles and tears up. Hannibal devours his bright, wholesome joy like a man starving, committing every childish sound and minute change of expression to memory in his palace.

“She is two months old, a mix of border collie and Australian blue heeler,” he explains while Will playfully ruffles the dog’s fur and continues to coo over her. “The breeders were calling her Sabine but I thought you might like to choose a new name for her yourself.”

“She’s so beautiful, oh my god. _Yes, you are,_ _”_ the boy gushes when the puppy licks his nose again in response. “Are we really keeping her?” Hannibal dips his head in a nod. _“Ughhhh,_ you’re so _evil!_ _”_ his son exclaims, laughing and crying at the same time. “You won’t even let me stay mad when you deserve it!”

“I only want to see you happy, caro mio.” He’ll buy the boy an entire puppy farm if it makes his apologies this effective. He’ll buy more dogs even if he isn’t forgiven as long as it makes Will smile like this.

Will stays crouched on the floor and continues playing with the new pup for the next several minutes while Hannibal makes trips back and forth to the car to retrieve a few supplies. A water dish, an identical saucer for kibble, though he intends to make most of the dog’s meals from scratch as he does for himself and Will, collar and leash to take her on a walk later, training pads in case of accidents in the meantime, a couple of chew toys, and a playpen which Will helps him construct after they rearrange some of the lobby furniture to make room for it near Will’s desk. He purchased an identical one for the den at home though he suspects she won’t be spending as much time in it. He’ll enlist Will’s help again in puppy-proofing the house when they get home this evening, already resigned to small sacrifices like extra time they’ll have to spend cleaning up dog hair and little accidents while she’s still being trained and redesigning or even removing some decorative pieces with animal safety in mind. Fortunately he has always maintained the back garden with the thought of reducing risk of exposure to toxic plants for any strays that may happen to wander in, though he has never been paid a visit by more than songbirds or the occasional neighborhood feline.

After watching her play for a bit with her new toys, an expression of serious but adoring contemplation on his face, Will decides upon a name. “Adelaide? No, wait, I went to school with a girl with that name, hang on…hmm… _Clementine._ _”_ The pup perks her large pointed ears in interest, most likely because of the slight change in tone, but Will nods in satisfaction as if that settles the matter.

Clementine settles into her playpen with minimal whining until Will turns his focus back to work. Then she starts up with the most pitiful whimpering until Will relents and drops his hand into the pen for her to sniff and play-bite. Hannibal can relate to the feeling. He steps up behind Will’s chair to brush a lint roller over the dark hairs clinging to his vest before placing the roller in one of the desk drawers. Will shoots him a grateful smile, phone pressed to his ear while a client drones on the other end. Hannibal returns to his office to await the next appointment with a lighter heart than before he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this [gorgeous model](https://moderndogmagazine.com/photocontest/entry/leda) Clementine is based upon 🥺 (and just ignore the fabulous coincidence of her name being Leda, of all things 😆)
> 
> And how I'm projecting [Clem will look](https://www.dogbreedinfo.com/b/borderheeler.htm) at around 7 months 🥰

**Author's Note:**

> **Usually updates every other weekend, typically late afternoon to mid-evening in US time zones.**
> 
> Now with [fan art](https://aglassroseneverfades.tumblr.com/tagged/body-%26-blood) by catsolari! 😍 
> 
> Incidentally, a fun fact I've learned recently about Hannibal's beloved pastime (no, not that one) thanks to my taking advantage of [The Met's current lineup of free nightly opera streams](https://www.metopera.org/user-information/nightly-met-opera-streams/) is the disturbingly high count of tragic romances featuring sweet, naive 15-year-old maidens who lose their innocence over the course of the story as the main heroine or love interest. Take from that what you will.


End file.
